The television blares, drowning out the noise of the vacuum cleaner. My wife is never interested in things I like to watch. The microwave food on my TV tray is getting cold, as my attention is riveted to the action on the tube. The two opponents seem unequally matched. The underdog is struggling valiantly, and there is a possibility of an upset in the making.
She is now in the living room, walking in front of the television. She gives me a dirty look. She has things for me to do. I can't tear myself away. I'm rooting for Ukraine.