My husband and I went to a play last weekend. It was a gorgeous evening, so I made my older son take some photos of us before we left.
My husband’s patience for photo taking is nonexistent, and my son clicks at anything that moves, so we ended up with a bunch of weird photos and some blurry shots of the sky, garden, and cat.
“Why are we taking these?” my husband asked, waves of irritation radiating from his body.
“Because,” I said. “Now kiss me.”
“I’m not kissing you on camera,” he said.
We get along a lot better than we used to. No longer do we debate the merits of daily vacuuming, and if he’s going to be late, he calls.
‘Course, we still can’t agree on what movies and TV shows to watch, we don’t have shared interests, and he doesn’t pick up on my carefully placed treat-me-please ideas, such as, “WHY DON’T YOU EVER BUY ME TWIZZLERS!” but, oh well. Such is life.
Twizzlers aren’t good for me anyway.