Yesterday, Amanda George told me she thought she and Rob were kindred spirits, and they do indeed seem to be similar on that level. But I don’t know to what extent she mimics his more earthly pursuits. Where does she stand on crumbs, for example? What about that crucial issue of the cabinet doors? And nests?

Yes, we must address the topic of nests.

Rob leaves town every week for a few days, and when he gets back, he sets up his laptop computer in one of four zones of the house: on the futon in his office, on the dining room table, on the couch in the living room, or on the folding chair in the bedroom. (I have yet to correlate any of these areas with his mood, although there is undoubtedly a connection I could plot with the precision of a naturalist.)

While he is home, that location becomes Rob Ground Zero. I will come home from work and find him there in his robe, surrounded by empty or half-filled seltzer cans and coffee cups, and plates that once held cheese and crackers or leftovers. There will often be a stack of books or the scattered remains of a newspaper; frequently CD jewel cases will put in an appearance.

And crumbs, lots and lots of crumbs. At least until he stands up and Goblin the Remora Fish swoops in.

“I know what you did all day,” I tell him when I get home and behold this nest of his comforts. Truthfully, it’s comfortable for me, too, to see.

The house is a lonelier place when he’s gone.