I read that men and women become more like each other as they age. I don’t believe this. But I brought the subject up with my wife over a cup of tea.
“Nonsense,” my wife grunted, jerking her arm and accidentally spilling hot green liquid on her new Levis. “Goddamnit, I just bought these!”
“Well they need a few washings anyway,” I reassured, “so they’ll start feeling as soft and comfortable as one of your old shirts.”
“Are those new shorts?” she asked.
“Yes, and I love them! They’re very loose and allow cool breezes to get up inside them. Keeps me dry.”
My wife rubbed a hair on her chin and mused, “Come to think of it, my grandmother acted a little masculine. I remember how she used to wolf-whistle at construction workers.”
“Hmm, now I remember how my grandma could drink any man under the table at her favorite bar.”
“What was her drink?”
“Bud . . . she was a Bud lady.” I softly murmured, as I slowly stroked my thighs while admiring my wife’s broad chest and strong arms.
She put her hand on mine and drew closer. “You’re looking kind of sexy today,” she grinned.
I pulled my hand from hers and put a pouting moue on my face. “Not until you apologize for what you said to me yesterday.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I said you look fat in those clothes.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I wiped away a tear. “I think you were right. I really do.”
“No, no you’re very handsome!” she reassured. “Anyway, I’m feeling tired.”
“And I have a headache,” I said.
We finished our tea and went our respective ways. She lounged in front of the TV set, watching women’s basketball while munching on a bag of potato chips.
I got busy pulling weeds out of the flower garden. Which wasn’t a good idea. I should not have been wearing my new white shorts for such a dirty activity.