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Damn Sandy!

“National Novel Writing Month, what an excellent idea,” I thought out loud. Talk about a senior moment; I totally forgot Sandy was in the room. He’d come over for a little quality time with his attitude in tow. Normally we’d spend every night together, snuggled under the blankets, remote control in hand, half watching something on the Discovery Channel. That was before I got a second chance at a writing career. Since then, a lot has changed between us.

“Uh uh, not this again. Between work, the kids and your on-and-off again movie nights, I hardly get to see you anymore.” Hurt battled with hopefulness over his normally gentle and seductive expression. After forty-two years on the back burner, he’d more than served his time. Though he wasn’t ready to call our relationship quits, enough was enough.

Sandy stood in the middle of my bedroom like some mythological god. His arms folded over his chest with legs parted in a warrior stance, I knew this argument was going to the mat, or my pillow-top mattress if he had anything to do with it, which of course he did.

“Hon, don’t be that way. It’s really not going to be all that bad. I’ve already done my research and outlining. The scene sketches were done weeks ago, and I’ve dreamed of these characters for so long, I know every pimple on their collective butts.”

“Damn.” Sometimes it’s easy to forget, especially when we disagree, how very sensitive he can be. I didn’t need to see the sudden glisten of his eyes or stillness of his hand-tooled pecs to know I’d wounded him deeply. We had a long-standing agreement that unless he invited them, no one else could visit with me on his time. How ugly this was going to get, I wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter. I had it coming.

With teeth clenched so tightly, air barely passed through, he reached for the overnight bag he’d earlier flung to the floor. Quicker than a blink he snatched out a blackish-blue velvet pouch, and without even a sideways glimpse at me, stomped through the bedroom sabotaging my newly acquired determination.

First, he sprinkled my laptop with doze-ease, professional strength. He then spritzed every pen and pencil with a violet colored solution, I immediately recognized as essence of daydream. Next, he used a peacock feather coated with procrastination to dust the pillows. As if this weren’t enough, he slathered my bed with crème-de la-fatiguetigue. Only then was he satisfied and returned his attention to me.

Before I’d inhaled my next breath, he’d stripped out of his clothes, ripped the cellophane off a small silver flask and sauntered toward the bathroom. Just as he was about the go through the door, he turned and nailed me with the sexiest lopsided smirk I’ve ever seen. Afraid to move, I waited until I heard the shower before I chanced a peek at the discarded label on the floor.

“Wet-dream by Phantastique? Aw, hell no!”