“Come snuggle.”
He pats the void between us—the one very recently occupied by a wild-haired
toddler. I slide over, taking my place inside his warm arm.
“How come she never wakes up when you
carry her back to bed?” I ask.
“Well, I’m a ninja, so ...”
I smile at his silliness. I smile at the sensation of his words
reverberating from his chest to my cheek. I smile because I know what his
snuggle invitations mean. After nine years, I’m onto his schemes. And I’m a
willing accomplice. We are thieves, stealing little moments between potty
accidents, toy battles and nightmares featuring vague monsters.
As usual, my feet are ice. But he doesn’t flinch when my frigid toes breach
his soft leg hairs. His hand is on my ass. It’ll end up there several
more times today. (A quick slap if we pass each other in the kitchen preparing
tonight’s kid-friendly cuisine. A little squeeze while we retreat down the
hall, having tucked each child under a Disney-themed bedspread.)
I’m covered neck to ankle in flannel pajamas older than our oldest
offspring, yet I shiver when his lips sweep my forehead. As I stretch to nuzzle
his neck, I feel him growing against my hip.
“The door?”
“Already locked,” he declares.
I love that he assumed we’d have sex this morning. I love that he’s in the
mood although he spent the greater part of last night with tiny feet in his
back.
Once upon a time, we had sex like freshly paroled ex-cons. Nowadays we take it
whenever, wherever and however we can get it—which occasionally amounts
to quickies in obscure parking lots before relieving the sitter. Sometimes
we’re too damn exhausted for anything beyond snuggling.
But not this morning.
But not this morning.
#
This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "whatever" as defined below:
WHATEVER
(adverb) Used to show that something is not important
Word count: 333
