Thread count is important, he thought. Thread count is not just a casual allusion to status in cocktail party discussion but, rather, one of those subtle references to a man's character, his true spirit. Thread count was, in fact, the single factor in determining Fred's living arrangement. He had moved into the basement apartment with his girlfriend Lori, two years ago after a passionate discussion in the "Bedding" department of Linens 'N Things (or maybe it was Bed, Bath, and Beyond).
"Baby, I know it's a little more money but think about the thread count." Lori's blue veins seemed to stretch back her eyebrows as she prepared to defend her position. "Goddamn," is what Fred thought but, "Fuck," is what he said, a strategically placed expletive to conceed his defeat and introduce the obligatory, impotent reply.
"Fuck, I don't even know what thread count means." Truthfully, Fred had heard the both the word "thread" and "count" but never in such a definitive progression. He briefly connected them to a sports term. The veins in Lori's head receded, as if to signify her victory and slide in to collect her winnings. She lectured Fred, elevating thread count as the defining characteristic in blanket shopping. Clearly, the thread count not only exposed the quality and distinctiveness of the brand, but also spoke unequivocally about the deep sense of comfort potentially connected to the particular piece of bedding. Lori examined various fabrics, noting the prestige based on thread count. Fred was not only dazzled by Lori's seamless flow of words on an obscure subject, but her to equip Fred with the tools necessary for future shopping. Fred could not live without her, he thought. Two weeks later, Fred agreed to move into Lori's apartment.