I roll my eyes and glance around the room for inspiration. When I see one of his feet sticking out of the covers, I say in clipped notes, “I hate your pinkie toe.” “What?” He looks down at his offensive foot. “It sticks out to the side…It looks like a birth defect.” His face drops in dismay. “That’s rather specific.” “It makes me sick,” I sputter. “Well, I’m not asking you to suck it!” His eyes are accusatory and annoyed, our glorious and agreeable bubble well and popped now. “The minute you do, we’ll be divorced faster than you can—” He dives across the bed and tackles me, silencing my words
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