Baffling

You cannot baffle sound, I said as H stopped for the light. That's not the right verb. A van idled in front, its exhaust heading east as I went on. Muffle, yes. But baffle? No way. How can sound be confused? Dementia? Too much to drink? Pulling a rabbit out of a hat might do it, I said. That's always baffled me. As we followed the van down the street he told me about baffles in mufflers. Oh please, I said, shaking my head, I'll look it up when we get home. That was Friday.

A little while ago H walked in, told me he's off to Canadian Tire. Needs a few things. He went over the list. I wasn't really listening. Drive carefully, I said like I always do. On his way out, he stopped. Turned. Hey, did you look up baffle? I faced him, gave him the what-a-waste-of-time stare, then pulled the OED down. What I found baffled me. He grinned and sped off. Teeth baffled the growl.