Another Instance of Hot Romance at Our House.
Yesterday, Phil was at the computer. I came up behind him, put my arm around his chest, laid my head on his shoulder and gave him a hug.
"Uh oh," he said, "What have you done? Have you broken something?"
"I'm just loving you," I said.
"Have you touched something mechanical?" he said. (Mechanical things dislike me. They stop working, break or short circuit. Every car of ours that has even had a breakdown was when I was driving. Alone.)
"The nerve," I said. "Can't you just accept a simple show of affection."
"Well, it's so rare, I was worried."
And so it goes. Hot romance.
This morning, when I came down the stairs, Phil met me at the bottom of the steps with a tragic look on his face.
"I'm so sorry," he said.
In that instant I thought of each child. Each grandchild. Maybe something terrible had happened to one of them. Then I thought, Well, he's leaving me. He doesn't get enough romance and he's had it. Then I thought, he's ruined something of mine. The computer would be my best guess. He knows I adore it. I might even say it's a romantic relationship, not a hot one, but still.
I finally spoke in a croaky whisper. "What's wrong?"
"Pika hawked up a fur ball in your shoe."
I have never been so happy to have unpleasant news in my life. I may even have hugged him. "Thank you, Phil," I said. "Oh, thank you."
He now thinks I'm certifiably nuts and doesn't want hot romance with the likes of me.