Page 19 of Croc Food

And she absolutely would not be moved, forcing me to go down to the end of the bed with her, because I’d be damned if my wife was going to lie at the foot of my bed.

Was two hours of playacting at a dinner worth it? Not if I lost my wife. . .

CHAPTER 8

Chad

The next day I woke up with my neck twisted to hell and my whole body aching from scrunching my tall frame to fit on the foot of the bed.

Bitsy, meanwhile, had moved back to the top of the bed and was spread out like a starfish.

Things should be back to normal. But they didn’t feel back to normal.

When we finally found my car again, unfortunately I had parked in the wrong spot, and the vehicle had slid down a bank and into the swamp.

“Sorry, baby, I fucked up there.”

Bitsy only said, “if a MAN did it, how can it be a mistake?” and called a towing company to take care of it while we headed to the airport.

“Bitsy, please, you know I don’t like this robot wife shit,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Don’t you?” she asked sweetly.

And it was even worse on the plane.

Before we sat down, Bitsy produced a handkerchief and wiped off my seat, drinks table, and armrests.

“Here you go, your lordship,” she said again. “I hope it is all to your liking. I live only to serve you.”

Everyone stared at me like I was a total monster in ill-fitting overalls, and I tried to laugh it off, licking dry lips.

“Ha ha ha,” I croaked. “My wife is a real comedian.”

“Bitsy—please⁠—”

“Not enough?” she cried. “Well, Chadley, I’m very sorry but I tried to prepare the seat for you. I did my best.”

“Oh, honey,” several other passengers cried, an older lady clicking her tongue in disgust at me, while the man behind me kicked my seat in a menacing fashion.

And it was just the same when I got home. Bitsy refused to get out of her robot wife persona and show me anything of her real self.

I tried everything I could to get my wife back but it was to no avail.

My throat was raw with begging, pleading for a second chance, but Bitsy only flicked a duster over me.

The next day there was a staff meeting and usually Mr. Van Buren used this as a thinly-veiled excuse for jostling for position. Seeing who had the more cutting takedowns of each other. Pontificating about how it was best to pump out 3-5 babies before age 30 so the C-suite executives knew our seed could stick.

But I wasn’t in the mood for him or his jokes.

“Got all that settled at home?” he asked, his beady little eyes gleaming at me. “Really showed that little lady who is boss? Women are good little creatures really. Pat on the ass and a kind word or two and they’ll do exactly what you want.”

I had to bite my tongue not to snap back that I didn’t think any amount of pats on the ass was going to fix this with Bitsy, and in fact, they’d only make things worse.

Could I really do this? Would he get off my ass once I was VP? Or was I going to hear this shit in perpetuity?

I went to the Sloppy Joe on my lunch break, just to reassure myself that Bitsy was still there.

And because, frankly, I felt even grosser than usual after hearing all Mr. Van Buren’s jokes.