acyrologia

While I was straightening the blanket on our bed, Malaprop asked me, as though the answer didn’t matter, why it is that I’m so fragile.

I froze for a second, then sighed. I didn’t really want to have a conversation about why I’m so fragile. My brain whirlpooled with excuses and denials and counter-accusations. You're fragile. And you always leave your dishes in the sink. And I know how to put the cover back on the barbecue all by myself, you know, I'm not stupid. You're the one who's fragile, man.

Before I could say anything he amended his question. Fragile wasn’t the word he meant. He meant to say frigid. And this was because I hadn’t wanted his hands down my pants while I was brushing my teeth. Bonehead. He thought he was being funny, I could tell. I’m so glad that people can’t see inside my head.




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