I chose to leave our bedroom in favor of the guest room.It’s not because I miss my New York bed. "Don’t make me," I said in a tempting tone, "Don’t make me… pinch your nipple."–No, wait, It began, "I need to tell you something, but I’m going to say it sweetly, so you don’t think I’m picking a fight with you. First of all, you have lovely nipples," I began, staring at my shirtless husband, as she looked toward the muted TV while lying in our bed. "So lovely, in fact, that they deserve a tiny pinch."
"You’re going to pinch my nipples?"
"Oh, I just might," I tease, "after all, how many times have you snuck up on me, scaring me to bits, doing the thing I hate (grabbing a handful of this, slapping that, or just outright startling me), only to hear me threat, ‘Oh, you’ll get yours when you least expect it! You’ll see.’ But I never ever do get you! Or even try to. Well, now at least consider yourself warned." Then I grabbed one, or tried to, as we laughed. Only you stopped laughing and smacked my bare ass so hard, I’m sure you left a hand print. It was the kind of slap that changed the spirit of things. And no, not one fraction of a second of that was sexual. I slapped you back, first on your shoulder, but then in the face. "Not the face," you said, "that’s just not right."
"Neither is slapping me like that, ever! For all the times you’ve done shit I hate, I’ve never hit you for it!" I said, rubbing my hands over my backside.
"Say it was wrong of you to slap me in the face!" You demanded.
"Phil, you shouldn’t have hit me at all, for any reason. You’re bigger than I am."
"Yeah? Not by much," you said. And then you laughed.
I got silent and quiet. "You’re a real shit," I finally managed, my face betraying tears.
"Come on, I didn’t mean it like that," you fumbled.
"Yeah, you did. You read my book. You know me, my sensitives, and you’re a real prick for that, Phil."
I walked out of the bedroom, repeating the words down the hall. "Yeah? Not by much."