You don’t bring me salads anymore
ST and I had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend together. Lots of food, lots of love, and lots of sitting our asses. I have yet again f*cked up my left ankle, this time the tendon sheath over the top, and I’m trying to rest it.
We had prepared for the long weekend by purposely holding off on our latest Netflix arrivals (The Lake House and Boondock Saints) as well as finally using up some Blockbuster money I’d had since June (Nacho Libre and Chronicles of Narnia). But by Sunday afternoon, the movie well was dry.
We’d just come home from the condo (I’d insisted we make a brief pass over it with a broom and dust rag), I needed to put the ankle up and veg for a bit. So I popped a Sex in the City DVD in.
ST has never really watched any of the series, and was restless in that Sunday evening way that had him pinging from room to room with little tasks. But who can resist plot lines where Virgin Mary statues replace vibrators? Soon he had settled in next to me and we were watching the “Are we sluts?” episode.
When Carrie is all huffed that Aiden is in the bathroom for an hour, and it turned out he was drawing a romantic bath for two, I turned to ST and mummbled and gestured. It was the type of comment that wasn’t meant to be articulated fully, the gist of it being fully formed on the television set.
Except…
“What did you just say?”
“I said….why don’t you draw me a bath….with salads…”
“That’s what I thought I heard.”
“But I meant candles!”
“One bath with salad, coming up.”