There are too many obstacles in life to blindly gallop at breakneck speed. My wife never learned that lesson.
Her body resembles an anthropological survey of scrapes and scars. I sometimes abruptly recall certain furniture we’ve owned and their precise arrangement with the lucid aid of her bruise cartography. While these haphazard autographs of misery each have their own unique tale of woe, there are a few easily identified elements:
a) the verbal taunt
b) the rapacious lunge
c) the frenetic evasion of furniture and sharp objects
d) the blood-curdling screaming and screeching at the eventual failure of (c)
I suppose my ululating crescendo as I try to grope her ass doesn’t ease the trauma of the situation. In her mind, she must think she’s dodging objects with a spritely dexterity. In reality, I observe a harried conglomeration of arms and legs flailing about as she continuously looks back in my direction while adventurously dashing forward. I call this her “sideways running”. And sure enough, in the next moment, there is a scuffling noise, followed by a forceful thud. Then silence. A bit more silence. Then an unearthly screech fills the air, suffixed by bawling moans of primal tragedy. I rush over to console her, filled with an awkward mixture of concern and stifled laughter. She’s my one and only, and I can’t help but dread the day she proves it.