But I love him so much
The difference between my Prince-husband and my Prince-cat is not in their abilities to purr or sunbake, nor is it in their affinities for blocking passages in the house, nor even in the great pleasure they each take in relentlessly prodding at me while I’m sleeping. The difference I can pinpoint, if any, is that one is here and one is not. And maybe one has a tail and the other does not, but that other has something comparable.
It is definitely not in their affinities for blocking passages in the house.
“I like this picture I took of you,” says he.
I say, “which one?”
“The one where we were sitting next to each other.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“Your skin tones look nice.”
“Except for all the pimples all over my face.”
“True,” he says.
Oh sweetest of hearts. I am a precious wife not to retaliate when he responds to me this way. He sees the trap my female mind unwittingly sets for him and does not play along. I believe this has gone poorly for him in previous relationships. But I have self-awareness. And just he waits until I can discard my last nuvaring and clear away the bumpy clouds on my forehead because he has become the bearer of birth-control!
The zoom-in of my eyeball did look nice in the photograph, however. It always does.
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