The Offending Ophidian

"Jenna, you have to understand - I duck as a random object readily available to my wife of six years flies past my head. She was witness to something that doesn't exactly register well to someone of the opposite sex when seen. It wasn't that I was lonely, I just had an urge. I guess you can understand her anger, depending on your disposition.

"Oh, I understand all right! I'm not enough for you! I can't make you happy! Jenna roars as she picks up things from around our small one bedroom apartment and tosses, no, hurls them at me. She leaves the hallway for the bedroom itself to gather her next queue of items as I hide in the T.V. room. It was probably a dining room for the prior inhabitant, but welcoming the modern life means welcoming modern names. Everything we have is crammed into this apartment much as you would load black powder into a musket. The luxury of space would not just be more comfortable, but from time to time would afford me more area for the leaping and dodging that will be necessary to avoid the surprisingly accurate projectiles of my wife.

"Honey, my voice projects loudly as I hide behind a small blue recliner and listen to her footsteps in the bedroom. "Buttercup, you know you make me happy! I shout as I hear her footsteps coming down the hall. I hear her black platform heels stop mid clomp, and I can imagine her almost white blonde hair going as still as her small light frame. I have my hands clenched around the sides of the chair, and slowly raise my head above the top to survey the situation.

A Christmas ornament. Santa Clause holding a star above his head. A strange and awkward bruise. That is what I receive at world series fast ball speed from my wife, pitching from the mound of discontent and embarrassment that now lies on the playing field of our relationship.

"Buttercup!! You called me mother fucking buttercup!! Gee, I wonder if that's a last ditch effort to attempt to be sweet!! she says in a loud booming voice. I check my watch quick and see that I am going to be late for work if I don't leave now. If I leave now she might leave for good, depending on how dramatic she decides to be. Time for a little bit of my special finesse. I run my hands through my hair and take a deep breath. I go to peak around the corner.

It was a diet cherry vanilla doctor pepper. A full can. Another strange and awkward bruise. So much for my finesse. At the moment I am anxious. I am supremely impulsive. I am eager with a vengeance. All of this collectively means one result for a man; stupidity. Absolute, ridiculous, obnoxious, stupidity. I take the can, and shake it. I roll past the edge of the recliner and sprint towards Jenna, narrowly missing a speeding wine glass, and still shaking the soda. I do a side step away from a picture frame turned throwing star, still shaking. Jenna, who is in the hallway which leads to the door, looks ominous in every sense of the word. There is nothing that can prepare her for what is about to happen next.

Still in full sprint, I strafe right, and aim the can carefully at her face. When I am within range, and rounding the turn into the hallway, I pop open the tab. The madness in that hall was magnificent. The spray of vanilla, cherry, and bubbly obscenities seemed to relay itself in a slow string of time. As she stands there soaked, I keep running. I manage a lightning quick kiss on her cheek, but keep heading for the door.

I don't stop running when I get out of the apartment. She could be anywhere, anytime. When you get married you are always looking forward to the life ahead of you. At least in the beginning, until you remember that women are omniscient. Then you start looking over your shoulder. I run to the end of the hallway to the elevator. I press on the dirty gray down button. I stand for a second until I hear heavy heeled footsteps behind me. I look to see that my wife is in hot carbonated pursuit. I bolt to the right heading for the stairwell. As I run I step on a kids toy remote control car. I fall forward on my face and kick the toy into air in the process. I hear a smack and a thud come from behind me. I roll over and see two big platform shoes pointing towards me, belonging to my wife who is now laying flat on her back. I scoot forward and kick one of the heels.

I am relieved at the nasal and muffled sentence that comes from my wife. "Why do I love you, you son of a bitch. I groan a little bit as I stand up. I wriggle my right arm under her knees and my left arm across her back and carry her back to the apartment. I take careful steps on the slick, sticky, debris covered floor. I make sure I don't bump her head or legs into anything, because right now consideration is the only form of affection I can give her. Not much makes amends for my list of marital sins, even if they seem to be misdemeanors. It's not like I've ever cheated on her. I've just surprised her with my alone time activities and flung a mass of plastic into her face. As I lay her on the bed I can tell that she going to have a black eye. I look at her face and hang my head and chuckle.

"What's so funny? Jenna asks in a tired voice. I lift my head and smile for second, and state simply, "us.