photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash. Used with permission.
Your proposal that we call in sick and the steady beat drummed against the windowpane by the driving sleet divulge a secret pleasure long-buried in my actions of playing hooky and long days devoid of verbs and fractions. Zealous plans to fool Mom with coughs and groans and wheezes. Crumpled Kleenex, put-on gags and manufactured sneezes.
In spite of what the calendar reveals to be a Monday, stretching out the weekend into another fun day, I call your boss, you call mine. By noon the clouds have lifted. All the sleet has vanished from the corners where it drifted. We put on boots to splash through puddles, bringing back our youth, as silly as mere teenagers a bit long in the tooth.
We gorge on pizza, eaten in front of the TV.
I win at double solitaire. You win at Tripoly.
We pop some corn and eat it with peanut M&Ms
until the clouds roll in again and when the sunlight dims,
we return to bed again to get a little nookie— that added pleasure when it is adults who play at hooky.
Throw clothes over your birthday suit, it’s fast becoming dawn. We need to be respectable, so put your jammies on. The milkman will be coming and it would be a plus if when we met him at the door, we had some clothes on us.
Mere speed will not suffice, dear. We also need some raiment.
No need to let the milkman in on our entertainment.
For milk upon our Fruit Loops, there are obstacles to hurdle if we want to eat before the milk begins to curdle. My walker in the hallway, your cane dropped on the floor, the stairway to maneuver, the deadbolt on the door. Folks as old as us should have passed this lusty phase.
Bed for us should merely be a place to laze.
So smooth your messy hair, dear, and try to look less daring. No need to let the milkman in on fun times we’ve been sharing. We should be sharing pastimes like t.v. and crossword puzzles. Who would suspect that we are still into passion’s nuzzles? So in spite of all the cheap jokes, no milkman will succeed me. When it comes to filling orders, my wife still seems to need me!
The prompt word on this Valentine’s Day is, fittingly, “passion.”
Each morning when I wake to shrill alarm or sweet bird song, depending upon the requirements of my day, you are the first to greet my opening eyes. You rest there on the pillow next to me in the bed where first I, then you, have fallen to sleep the night before too soon, too soon, before half our words were said.
It is the first stroke of my fingers that brings you finally to life. Your countenance lights up and the same love words I revealed to you last night are returned to me.
My hands caress and new words come easily first to me, then to you. I touch gently all your fine smoothness, getting back everything that I give equal measure, continuing our long love story of give and take as I shift your light frame onto my lap to stroke your separate parts from question mark to exclamation point.
Could a PC ever rouse this passion in me? No way, MacBook Air. Thou art my love!
There is no need to instigate a further conversation. I do not wish to carry on further investigation. Your research notes are copious. You are immersed in piles of them. Why must you accumulate miles and miles and miles of them?
Please, conquer your obsession. Let us get on with our lives. Your number one obsession has me breaking out in hives! I rue the day I prompted you to have a little look at what I just considered an entertaining book.
I didn’t have a single clue–not an inkling that you would quickly be obsessed with the Vampire Lestat! A Discovery of Witches then joined your Zombie thing. Every occult creature in graveyard or on wing
has seemed to colonize your mind, squeezing out all other former occupations: football, hockey and your mother!!! This is an intervention. I’m unplugging the TV, seizing all your Anne Rice books. Replacing them with me.
Try to read me like a book. Look here into my eyes. Vampires aren’t the only creatures who can mesmerize. We’ll toss your zombies in a pile and stage a mass cremation. Our sex life should improve a lot with their elimination.
I won’t need to bite your neck. My seductions won’t be gory. They’ll be the furthest thing from an American Horror Story. Things that go bump in the night need not all make you wary. Let me raise your pulse rate by a means that is less scary!!!
Prompt words today are immerse, copious, extreme and instigate.
He knew to win her favor he must wine her and then feed her. And finally to the forest he felt compelled to lead her. He kissed her ‘neath the elm tree and he kissed her ‘neath the cedar. And, need I tell the rest to you, my very dearest reader? Did he woo her, did he charm her, did he flatter her and need her? Did he lay her down in clover? Did he dandelion weed her? And when she voiced objections, did he circumvent, indeed, her girlish hesitations? Did he in fact fail to heed her? And was it inevitable, that he then should seed her?
It was a sort of lunacy that prompted our grand comedy. One sticky bun, two mugs of tea predated our dependency. As you passed, you looked so yearningly at that last bun, and jealously surveyed my plate most zealously, wishing it had gone to thee.
Later, when you got up to pee, I took note of your truancy and put the bun where it should be— there on your plate. When finally, you returned, you viewed with glee where that bun had come to be, viewing it most quizzically and pondering the mystery of this delicious legacy. You glanced around to try to see its origins, and finally, you saw my empty plate, and me.
I remember with such piquancy how swiftly you ensorcelled me— first with your smile, and eventually by your approach and finally by your sweet generosity as you brought the bun to share with me, sat at my table, crossed foot on knee, and conversed with so much vibrancy that “I” and “you” turned into “we.”
It was our first romantic tryst— A morning tea break with a twist.