“I can’t believe it! How can she just… ask me that – after all these years?!”
Jon’s expression is a study in puzzlement:
“Why can’t she ask you what?”
I shrug angrily: “You know…!”
Some things don’t bear repeating, especially not to my husband.
Jon raises both eyebrows in that charmingly innocently inquisitive way that completely diverts attention from the fact that my hubby supports himself – and me – by arresting people who crawl over fences and try not to get shot.
Maybe it’s a good ability for police-work as well as marriages.
“Just forget it, hon.”
He hoists himself up from the old armchair – with such a mock-effort that he almost knocks over the stale red wine on the small table. He hasn’t really touched it.
I thought we were going to have a romantic evening. Of sorts. Continue reading