This could be a conversation between my husband and I. Maybe. I promised him I wouldn’t tell. All fiction, of course.
“Heights. You know that’s what gets me. Give me spiders and cockroaches and snakes, but put me on a plane or at the top of a big hill and I’m likely to pass out,” he said as he grabbed the tin of paint and the brush that was propped up on the window sill.
“Well then,” his wife called back, “Maybe you should get down off that ladder and I’ll paint the ceiling.”