Mike came bustling into the room, all sweaty, just back from his morning run. I’m propped up on the bed, grumpy. Mike starts fiddling with my pill bottles.
“Morning, Babe!” he says, handing me a pill. I glare back at him. “Water” I remind him, ungraciously.
“You OK?” he asks, pausing to give me a look.
I sigh. “Last night I had a dream that you cheated on me.” Mike rolls his eyes. This annoys me further. “AFTER I went through chemo AND tamoxifan.” I stare at him. The cheating bastard.
“That dream sucks” he says, handing me another pill. I’m getting pissier by the second. He is not nearly remorseful enough for his fake-cheating. I start again: “I can’t believe you wou–”
Mike cuts me off, briskly: “Babe, LOOK. You own my heart and my dick. The. End. Now take your stool softener.”
And that’s where we are. It’s almost 14 years later, and I still crazy-love this man.