I start to walk away, but the nimble beast scoots in front of me, halting me from my retreat. He places his large hands on my shoulders and bends in the knee so we’re eye to eye. With serious but also compassionate eyes, he asks, “Penny . . . did you throw up in my shoe this morning, then hide my shoes so I wouldn’t notice?”
“Ha.” I guffaw so loudly, I startle the both of us. “What a far-fetched, entirely factitious thought.”
“Penny . . .” He pins me with a glare.
What’s the use?
Honestly, I’ve been caught red-handed, so just deal with the consequences.
I throw my hands up in the air and surrender, my white flag waving in chagrin.
“Fine. Yes, I threw up in your shoe, and you should be happy it wasn’t one of your suit bags. Because that was a close second. And before you get all mad because that’s your lucky shoe, I would highly recommend taking a step back to realize that I am carrying child, and anything I do for the duration of this pregnancy can’t be held against me.” I fold my arms over my chest and raise my chin high. There, he has been told.
I prep myself for him to be mad. For him to moan and groan about his favorite shoes being tarnished with my technicolor—winces—upchuck. My mind forms comebacks, resting them on the tip of my tongue, ready to be fired off in defense. Like a stockade, ready to banish any emotion on his end, I mentally get in my stance, tongue ready to lash.I shall take you down, dear sir, do not mess with these hormones.
His hands move closer to my neck, and I immediately sense where this is going. There’s no doubt in my foggy, dense-filled brain what’s about to happen. That’s right, folks. He’s about to put me in a good old-fashioned chokehold for tarnishing his shoes. Gasp, I know. But I can feel it. Sense it. He’s mad about his shoe. He’s about to choke me. I can see it in his feral eyes. Too bad for his manhood, I’m two steps ahead of him. He’s going to wring my neck, but not before I get a good swift kick to the crotch ready.
Unprotected strike zone, that’s your problem, man.
And before I can stop myself, I whip my leg back and then toss it forward, right into his junk. “Don’t you dare try to choke me over a shoe,” I yell out as a war cry.
A loud gurgling sound echoes against the walls, followed by a slow descent to the ground. His knees hit first, and then his body as he cripples over on his side.
Huzzah!
Thou shall not battle the holy one in gestation.
She might be nauseous, and she very well might have enough indigestion to burn down a thousand buildings at night, but she is mighty, and she knows how to pack a solid blow to the very nutsac that put her in this position.
“Holy . . . fuck,” he groans, cupping his sensitive niblets. “Why?”
“Why?” I blink down at him. “Uh, I wasn’t about to allow you to choke me over a shoe.”
“Choke . . . you?” he asks, still groaning. “Fuck, Penny. I was going to ask if you were okay. Why would I choke you?”
Um . . . what was that?
*Blinks*
He was going to ask if I was okay?
Hmm . . . where did I go wrong?
“Fucking Christ,” he groans some more, now covering his eyes with his arm.
Well, now I feel kind of bad.
With my toe, I nudge his shoulder. “You okay, sailor?”
“Does it look like I’m okay?” he shoots back, rage and pain lacing his every word.
“Not really, but I wasn’t sure if you were dusting off your acting chops.”
Red in the face, neck muscles bulging, he looks up at me and says, “I’m not fucking acting.”
I nod continuously as my hands twist together. “Okay, noted. Not acting. Got it. Well, then. I guess this was all just a silly misunderstanding.” I attempt a laugh, but it comes out strangled.
He takes a few deep breaths and then slowly sits up, but still clutching his crotch. “Fuck,” he mutters before one more deep breath. After a few seconds, he looks up at me. “Why would I want to choke you?”
