Okay, how much damage has she done to the bloody car this time? Is the first thought that screams across my beleaguered brain. But her car is okay, she hasn’t been shopping and her mother’s arriving for a visit next month. So what the hell is going on here? My mind races. Is this some kind of trick? My eyes narrow behind the newspaper, not reading a word. She’s up to something, but I don’t let on that I’m wise to her wiles. Hang on a minute! Is a musical theater show coming to town?!
I make a non-committal grunt and scrabble to the entertainment section in a raw panic, though on the surface I appear millpond still. Over the years I’ve mastered this little trick of outward ice and inward fire. It’s a survival technique men have evolved to navigate the miasma of relationship bliss. A bead of sweat rolls unbidden from my armpit as I achieve the appropriate page. I find no show tunes on my immediate horizon. The relief is so palpable I have to restrain myself from sobbing a little cry of joy. This respite doesn’t last long, however, as another possibility dawns on me:
Maybe she wants to go for a walk?! Quickly, my thoughts gather and excuses begin to flip before my mind’s eye like flash cards in a procrastinated cramming session.
“It’s just that, I’ve noticed you’ve been a little short with me lately, and you’re a lot easier to talk to after you’ve blown some stuff up.
Twitter
Outstanding! I found myself reading the entire post and believe me, I’ve lost nothing
I’ll try coming back.