Did she hit a sore spot with that joke about him getting old or something? She thinks about the pictures on his Instagram, the ones that scream 'I am having fun, fuck you', and she thinks about how often he says he's a deviant, how counterculture his behavior seems to be, how he wants it to seem to be.
Is being a deviant - or a rebel, or, ha, a 'bad boy' - something he's trying to hold on to like, what, a badge of honor? His social circle pushed him to the fringes and once there, did he decide to own it? Lean into it hard and completely?
Oh, fuck, and she's been teasing him about it. Wasn't that the first thought she had about him - that he's too old to be doing this shit?
He must have some sensitivity that he's edging closer and closer to forty, must think that there's a limit to how long one can play the black-clothes-I'm-so-hardcore game.
She needs to do some fast thinking, which would be so much easier if she wasn't nuzzling the hand at her cheek, if she wasn't burning with her own apology for making him feel badly, if that finger on her nose didn't make her smile that stupid, daft smile all over again.
Think fast. Fix it. ]
I told you, pinky rings and long hair don't make the deviant.
[She nestles closer, draping an arm over his waist, pressing her forehead to his. ]
You know what does? Marrying a girl you've known for less than two weeks, in Vegas, while wasted, and giving her the tackiest ring possible to wear until death do you part. And deciding, fuck it, you'll stay married to her, and by the way, you're going to occasionally bring her into work with you and make out with her on the desks of people you hate.
[ She grins, gives a little playful tug as though to shake him out of whatever idea is making him think he needs that particular ring for deviance purposes. ]
It's not a choice between deviance and your wife. You're just finding new, more creative ways to be deviant now that I'm wearing your ring. Which I'm keeping. It's still yours, but only because I'm yours, too.
no subject
What on earth.
Did she hit a sore spot with that joke about him getting old or something? She thinks about the pictures on his Instagram, the ones that scream 'I am having fun, fuck you', and she thinks about how often he says he's a deviant, how counterculture his behavior seems to be, how he wants it to seem to be.
Is being a deviant - or a rebel, or, ha, a 'bad boy' - something he's trying to hold on to like, what, a badge of honor? His social circle pushed him to the fringes and once there, did he decide to own it? Lean into it hard and completely?
Oh, fuck, and she's been teasing him about it. Wasn't that the first thought she had about him - that he's too old to be doing this shit?
He must have some sensitivity that he's edging closer and closer to forty, must think that there's a limit to how long one can play the black-clothes-I'm-so-hardcore game.
She needs to do some fast thinking, which would be so much easier if she wasn't nuzzling the hand at her cheek, if she wasn't burning with her own apology for making him feel badly, if that finger on her nose didn't make her smile that stupid, daft smile all over again.
Think fast. Fix it. ]
I told you, pinky rings and long hair don't make the deviant.
[She nestles closer, draping an arm over his waist, pressing her forehead to his. ]
You know what does? Marrying a girl you've known for less than two weeks, in Vegas, while wasted, and giving her the tackiest ring possible to wear until death do you part. And deciding, fuck it, you'll stay married to her, and by the way, you're going to occasionally bring her into work with you and make out with her on the desks of people you hate.
[ She grins, gives a little playful tug as though to shake him out of whatever idea is making him think he needs that particular ring for deviance purposes. ]
It's not a choice between deviance and your wife. You're just finding new, more creative ways to be deviant now that I'm wearing your ring. Which I'm keeping. It's still yours, but only because I'm yours, too.