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The Writer’s Spouse

After reading my last blog, my husband said (casually and quite foolishly) “You should blog about what scares the pants off a horror writer’s spouse. Give the world a picture of what it’s like to be married to a …” He bit his tongue, smiling easily. “Writer. Like you.”

 I can accommodate his wishes, sassy as they may be. It was three weeks ago, the last time I tore asunder my husband’s personal fortifications and brought him in a quivering heap to his knees. I think he’s got some grey hairs from the event. It went a little something like this …

 “Babe,” he said, zipping his laptop case and checking his iPhone messages. “I’m gonna be late tonight.”

“Oh I see …” I put down my tea. “But not late-late, though, right?”

“It’s possible.”

“Like, ABBA-punishment late?”

He groaned. “Not that. Come on, babe, gimme a break.”

I fluttered my lashes, grinning a warning.

“I’ll try to be home before you go to bed …”

“You’ll try?” I clarified, and began to hum softly.

“… but it looks like I’m going to have to rebuild the whole damn server—“

I wound up and belted out: “One of is crying, one of us is lying, in my lonely bed!”

He slumped with a long-suffering sigh and a dying moose sound, a drawn out uuuunnnnnnggggh.

 “Staring at the ceeeeeeeiling!” I raised my voice a full octave. “Wishing she was somewhere else insteeeead!”

“Woman!” he pleaded.

 “One of us is lonely, one of us is only, waiting for a caaaaallllll.”

“Whaddya want, money? Blood? A kidney?”

Sorry for herself! Feeling stupid! Feeling small! Wishing she had never left at aaaaalllll.”

“That’s it!” He came forward in a rush. “Come here, you.”

I danced away to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, lifting my voice to the rafters, flinging my arms wide. Before I could get another word out, he crushed me face-to-chest in his bear hug.

NEFFER LEF’ A’ AWWWWWLL!” I wailed, smothered by his abs. He’s that tall.

He tightened his hold until the fight went out of me. “All done?”

I nodded, a lie.

“ABBA-ed out?”

Again, my nose wriggled around against his rumbling diaphragm. “I’m sorry you had to experience that,” I coughed as he released his titan grip. “But you brought it on yourself.”

“Maybe if you could fall asleep without a man in your bed, it wouldn’t be an issue?”

“Maybe you should hire a man to sleep beside me when you can’t make it home in time?”

One massive dark eyebrow shot up comically. “Oh, really!”

I just grinned, and dodged from his grasp. “Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight! Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows awa—ack!!”

 And now, having had a naked, honest taste of the torture and torment my battle-ready husband is subjected to, the hourly peril he faces, the hurdles he so tirelessly vaults, shouldn’t someone knight the poor bastard already?

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