A chilly Sunday afternoon. I opened our front door and big bedroom window to allow the breeze to blow through and refresh our apartment. Pär came out of the shower wrapped in a wet towel and flopped down on his back on the bed, right in front of the window. I came in after five minutes to find him still there, having not moved an inch.

"You shouldn't lie in a cold draft wrapped in a wet towel," I told him. "You'll catch cold."

He sat up. "In all the years we've been together, you keep saying things like that. But have you ever known me to catch cold from being wet in a draft? It never happens!"

"Uh..." I said. Not a very effective response, but I was trying to remember a time when he'd caught cold after one of my little warnings. I couldn't think of a single one. This is not because there haven't been such times, but because I never store them up in my memory to triumphantly bring out and obnoxiously throw at him as proof at times like these. Note to self: start doing that.

"Admit it! This obsession with dampness and drafts has nothing to do with reality. You're caught up in these meaningless, scripted platitudes that you've learned to repeat. It's like Mulder and Scully."

"...I'm Mulder?" I asked hopefully.

His blue eyes twinkled wickedly at me. "You're Scully."

"Oh god, I'm Scully! Blindly repeating my dogmatic message of stupid textbook rationality despite all the most blatant evidence to the contrary!"

"Yup!"

"Okay, this sucks. How come you get to be Spock when it's cool to be logical, and then you get to be Mulder when it's cool to be irrational? There's no consistency to these comparisons... you just get to be whoever's coolest!"

"Hee hee! I rule."

"Next time, I'm going to come up with some really good geeky comparison first, and I'll make myself the cool one. You'll see!"

He giggled at me. "Scully," he mocked.

"You know, in the real world, without Chris Carter around to write scripts justifying Mulder's paranoia, Scully would be one who's right most of the time, and Mulder's crazy as a brickbat."

He just nodded and smiled in an insufferably superior manner.

Late tonight, Pär came home from the office looking woozy. (Yes, he works on the weekends a lot. Welcome to the wonderful world of start-up companies.)

"You know what," he said. "I think maybe there's something to that idea about not lying in a cold draft when you're wet. For the past four hours I could barely concentrate on keeping a thought in my head because I was all congested. I think I caught a cold."

Now if I had been Mulder, I might have crowed a bit and driven home the fact that I had been right. But Scully's way too cool to stoop to that kind of thing.