“Alfredo lasagna or Korean curry?”
Her eyes dart side to side. “Both?”
“Let’s go.” I exit the SUV and round the hood, seeing her step out of the car. “I won’t growl, because I won’t give you the satisfaction. Current count is four to zero and all, but in the future—” I stare at the door and let it hang.
“I’m to what? Be the damsel in distress who can’t open my own car door?” She halts her steps and turns on me. Her chin juts out in defiance.
“You’re to remember how you deserve to be treated.”
She blinks. “Oh.”
“This side please.” I usher her to my right.
“You have a side?”
I sigh and don’t respond. She’ll get it. She’s insanely smart, after all. I’ll wait and see how long before it sinks in.
Walking into the grocery store as a couple is weird as fuck. Most of the time, I order online and either have them shove it in the trunk or have it delivered. I’m not a walk-the-aisles kind of guy. My wife, though, seems to be of the belief that every aisle and lane requires time for perusal.
I want to be impatient, but watching her mind work is like watching her bake… It’s fascinating. She talks to herself, has a specific place in the cart where things should be placed, and bobs her head as if thinking out loud as she weighs the merits of certain ingredients, pronouncing their chemical components as if they have nutritional bearing.
I needed fewer than a dozen items and a full hour later, we haven’t even made it through the whole store.
I decide we’re done when I eye an employee checking her out as he restocks the dried beans. I stride his way, grabbing a bag of split peas I do not need and ones I will never use. Where only he can hear, I say to the bag as I flip it around my palm, “The last man who looked at my wife that way lost an eye. And I wasn’t even as fond of her as I am now. I suggest you avert your gaze.”
The fact that Lorien doesn’t hear the knocking of his knees or the chattering of his teeth in fear is testament to how oblivious the woman is to his perusal. For once, I’m grateful, she’s busy with her cart organization.
For future reference, I won’t be changing my methods to in-store purchases when she’s in tow. One, because of time and two, because of store clerks who think to leer at her. We leave with more groceries than we have room to store.
Walking to the car, I ask, “Now, should I cook tonight or do you want takeout? We managed to spend ninety minutes on ingredients, but we still don’t have a meal.”
The grumble from her belly is answer enough.
“Chinese or burgers?”
“Burgers.” Her eyes light up as she says it, and she walks a little faster toward the car.
“Burgers it is.” I repeat to myself, enjoying her excitement.
When she gets to her side, she reaches for the handle, but I clear my throat. “Uh hmm.”
Confusion is written all over her face when she turns to me. That is, before a scowl hits her face. Holding my eyes with an overly-long stare, she pulls the door open and climbs inside.
Oh, Wifey, when will you learn?
Thirty minutes later. That’s the answer. She learns a half an hour later when I park the SUV so tightly to the garage wall that she can’t open her door on that side. I’ll be lucky not to scrape theshit out of it in the morning driving her to work, but the look on her face is worth the trouble I created for tomorrow-me.
I slide out of the driver’s seat and extend a hand.
“Chivalrous you are not,” she huffs.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I give her butt a light slap after she’s on the concrete. “I held the door open for you and got to have you wait for me. Seems I’m the definition of chivalrous.” I hand her our burgers and drinks.
She’s through the door to the yard and nearly out the gate when I clear my throat again. I should turn her over my knee, but that would be crossing too many lines. More than I’ve already crossed. Hell, I haven’t crossed them, I’ve skated them, origamied them, and practically pretended they don’t exist.
It’s the clicking of her heels on her pavers next door that reminds me I’ve missed the thread.
I have every bag but the one with laundry detergent over my arms and have to turn sideways through my gate and hers. I might as well be carrying bulky kettle bells. And did the woman leave the door open for me?
