Last week I offered Grandpa’s Pasta Sauce and this week a slightly longer flash piece, My Wife’s An Alien, a bit of a break from a steady diet of Tag.
My Wife’s An Alien comes from a family joke; my Mediterranean blood makes me a furnace compared to most people. Susan offers me to people she sees shivering. “Hold his hand, you’ll warm up fast.”
The contrast to this is, compared to me, she’s the arctic. She once walked up to a fellow worker and put her hands on the back of the coworker’s neck and the coworker (no kidding) jumped about a foot in the air. “Good god, woman. Have the courtesy of staying in the ground when you’re dead!”
The scene here about cold feet? Yeah, it happened. A lot. Took me a while.
My wife’s an alien. I found out on our wedding night. You see, I’m old school. None of that heavy breathing stuff until the rings are on the fingers. She didn’t seem to mind. I offered to…umm…pleasure…her in other ways. You know? If she wanted.
“No. I can wait.”
I can make a joke out of it. One of those “My wife’s so frigid…” but that’s just the point. She is.
We’re lying in bed that first night together and she lets out this heavy sigh. I mean, long, deep; it sounded like an airline ruptured in the honeymoon suite, but what’s pneumatically driven in a honeymoon suite?
“You okay?”
She smiles, her eyes on the mirrored ceiling. “Yes. Just relaxing.”
“Do you want to…you know…?”
“If you’d like.”
But just then I’m noticing the bed is getting cold. “Are you getting chilly? Let me adjust the temperature before we start anything.”
“It won’t matter.”
“Huh?”
She’s still staring at our reflections in the ceiling mirror, smiling, and her foot slides over towards mine under the covers.
Except her foot’s a good five, six inches away and I’m feeling like I’m Luke Skywalker on the ice planet Hoth. She touches me with just her toes and I swear to God my skin turns blue up to eyeballs and my nose hairs twitch.
“Holy Mother of…are you alright? You need a doctor?”
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