My man is home. And all is right in my world again.
As independent as I am (and I'm just a little, tiny bit) there are some things even I can't do for myself. Some things require my man's doing.
Which is how I found myself flung over the arm of the couch last night, trying in vain to muffle my cries so the neighbors wouldn't hear us. But I found myself helpless to stop the flow of exclamations.
I gasped and cried, "Ah, ah, ah." "Oh. My. Lord. God," I exhaled. And we got the giggles.
"You can't make me laugh. I can't do this right when I'm laughing," my husband told me. Then, "Ah. There's the place."
But it seemed to go on forever and soon enough among my moans were a few hastily muffled "Ow!"s.
There's this place where a little pain can actually start to feel good. It makes your body warm, even hot, and there is something freeing in giving over to the sensations.
"It's deep," he remarked.
Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore he started to talk again. "Oh, I think...yes...there...right there...that's it! I'm done."
"You're done?" I asked. "You're sure? I need proof."
So he held out his hand to show it to me. The splinter he had dug out of my heel.
I'm sure my cry of, "But it is so small!" really impressed the neighbors.