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My mother raised me to be an unholy terror on the ice but a gentleman as soon as I take off my skates. Like a fucking Canadian should be, she’d say.
My husband is ripped to shreds. And thick with it. Uhh. Daddy? questions my brain.
“Your favorite movie is Clue. If they should be worried about anyone, it’s you.”
“Can you please try and piece together what you’re feeling and communicate it to me?”
Can you not see that I’m starving to death for you? Can’t you tell I missed you so horribly that my family couldn’t even make me smile?
“You don’t have to stop me from looking at anyone but you, because I don’t want to look in the first place.
Who cares about breathing when she’s pulling on my hair by the roots, hiccuping my name once, then full-on screaming it.
