Things that go bump in the night are rarely good things.
Shortly after I married my second wife, I was awakened by a thunderous crash that came from her closet. Of course, I was the one who had to get up and check it out. I slid open the folding doors to reveal one of the most horrific sights I could ever imagine. On the floor, mixed in with her ever-expanding wardrobe, lay the remains of three dioramas. I had foolishly placed them on the wire-rack shelf that was attached to the rod that had moments before held her clothes. It had buckled under the weight. I was in shock.
I looked over at her and told her what had happened. She says, "That's okay. You can pick it all up in the morning."
I had placed them on the shelf because she raised a stink about displaying them in our newly built apartment. She thought modeling was a bit childish and definitely geeky. That was 10 years ago, so I don't recall what I ever saw in her in the first place, which is probably why I now refer to her as my second ex-wife.
Is it mean to say that I miss my dioramas way more than her? I think not.