“I’m only asking, baby. I don’t want you to overtax yourself.”
“I’m not leaning? My equilibrium is a little off and I can’t tell.”
My eyes narrow as admitting weakness is an anathema to my wife and my primary. “You don’t look like you’re listing. You seemed shaky, so I asked.”
“Okay, good - shaky is okay.”
Fixing a forced smile on my mouth, I nod, pretending I’m not assessing her inch by inch. “Looking stronger by the moment, baby.”
I’m lying, but it’s for her own good. If she’s willing to admit a tiny flaw, it means she’s covering up a huge one and I’m going to find out before it bites us both in the ass.
She smiles, placing the glass on the bar, and then shuffles back towards the bed. “You love Taurus. That’s a difficult double to love. You enjoy your tough nuts.”
This is a distraction, but I humor her as I watch her move. “The heart loves who it loves, pet; it’s not a conscious choice. If love were easy, it wouldn't be worth fighting for. People wouldn’t write songs about it. The bad makes the good feel as good as it is.”
That is true, and I believe it. I don’t believe she wants to talk about this, and I believe I need her to let her guard down. She comes up to the bed, bumping against the side, and I frown, hearing her curse.
What in the hell is going on? That’s it. I have to ask.
“Are you okay, pet?”
“Yeah, I’m bloody fine. I can’t fucking see, but I’m fine,” she growls, throwing her hands in the air.
Shit. Double shit. Fuck. I knew it.
The Cat Pretends Everything Is Fine
TAURUS
My wife didn’t know where she wanted to go after we left our house, so I popped us to the Big Apple. She loves it there, and there’s plenty of unwilling donors for her to pick from. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of nationalities, ages, and types for her to pick from.
Welcome to my version of a food truck full of people, exactly as she asked.
“Oh, crap, this place stinks when you’re pregnant,” she grumbles.
I smirk, knowing that her grumbling is just that. I saw her face light up as she opened her eyes. She might gripe, but this place makes her heart sing. “Do you want to take in a show? We can always grab a snack on the way.”
Her lips curve up and she nods, looking more alive than she has in hours. I gallantly take her arm , leading her towards the best hunting ground in this entire bloody city: Central Park. There are so many rambles and dark overpasses and quiet walkwayswhere she can practice to her heart’s content—especially in the waning hours of dusk.
I’m brilliant if I say so myself.
It doesn’t take us long for her to find what she needs. My minx is frightfully efficient when she’s got food on her mind, and it makes my black heart sing with joy that I opened that world up to her.
Now she’s breathing heavily, so angry that she’s vibrating as she yells, “Ihatewhen you run! How many times do I have to tell you, morons?”
Chuckling to myself, I lean against a tree, feeling no need to intervene. My wife’s been popping around terrorizing would-be criminals in the park for well over an hour. I suppose I could write volunteer consulting services to the NYPD on my taxes.
You know, if I paid any.
I finally push off the tree and call out, “Oi, love! I’ve got more plans, if you had your snack.”
She pauses, pouting a little, but then she walks over, wiping her mouth. “Okay. We can come back after, though, right?”
I nod, leaning in to kiss her briefly. “Of course we can. Have to keep the nipper full and happy, or I’d be a bad dad.”
With that, I whisk her away in my usual style, knowing she’ll enjoy the surprise.
Musicals aren’t reallymy thing.
