Ashes to Ashes

"Lovey," I said, passing the end to him.
"Keep it," he said.
I didn't want to.  It needed to be ashed, and the ash tray was to his left, while I sat to his right with his foot in my lap.  I smoked a bit more then attempted to pass it again.  He accepted it this time, but, as he took it, a chunk of ash fell onto the remote control.  He didn't seem to have noticed, or maybe, I thought, he is waiting until he puts out the cigar before he dumps the fallen ash from the remote to the ash tray.  I was preoccupied with this bit of ash because I didn't want it to dirty his new black T-shirt and I didn't want it to fall on the already linty leopard-print couch cover.

Should I mention that the tv was on?
Isn't that a given?  It's on every night at our house.  Most days too.  Sick.

Anyway, I picked up the remote control and handed it to him.
"Ashtray, please," I said and nodded meaningfully at the remote that I had just handed over.
He looked me in the eye, nodded, took the remote and spilled the ashes on his new shirt.  He began changing channels.
Smiling, I said, "I was asking you to tip that ash into the ashtray.  Now it's on your shirt."
"Oh," he said and plucked his shirt out twice, sprinkling the ashes all over the couch cover.