“Want a baby sausage?”
I stare at Mark, “What?”
He holds up a miniature sandwich of some sort, “I bought a box of these at the store the other day. They’re good . . . like a Sausage McMuffin, but little. Want one?”
“OK, first? Ewwww. And second? You didn’t ask me if I wanted a little sandwich, you asked me if I wanted a baby sausage. Ewwww again.”
He takes a bite of his sandwich, “What are you talking about?”
“Baby sausage makes me think of those fat baby cherubs carved out of marble with the perfect little penises.”
Mark chews and stares at me, his eyebrows arched high.
I open the refrigerator and reach in for a small bunch of grapes, pop one in my mouth, “What? Baby sausage is an icky phrase. No way am I blowing a cherub.”
He pulls out the second sandwich from the two-pack he has microwaved, “What the hell is wrong with you? Nobody’s mind goes there . . . nobody’s mind jumps from the offer of a baby sausage to oral sex with a fat baby angel. Nobody thinks like that.”
I extend my hand in friendly greeting, “Hello, have we met? I am a woman to whom the offer of baby sausage should not be extended unless you are prepared to discuss blowing winged cherubs.”
“You are insane.”
I pluck two grapes from the bunch and roll them in my hand suggestively, “I am insane? Who calls a small sausage-patty sandwich a baby sausage? Riddle me that, crazy man.”
He finishes off his second baby sausage and then turns to me, gestures with his hand as he speaks, “Did we need any chicken breasts at the store? I couldn’t remember, so I didn’t buy any.”
I stare at him, “What are you doing with your hand?”
He makes the gesture again, thumb and index finger coming together in the air out in front of his face and then descending through space, his other fingers curled into his palm, “What? This? This is the sign for chicken breasts.” He giggles and makes the gesture again, “It’s so obvious!”
I am filled with giggles, “You look like you are milking a miniature cow!”
Mark reaches with both hands to milk two imaginary mini-cows, because apparently we need a LOT of chicken breasts. Hee hee! I can’t stop giggling. He reaches over me to search the cupboards for something else to eat, because the two tiny sandwiches, while delicious, were . . . well . . . tiny.
I work to get myself under control, but then I am lost in a sudden vision of Mark somehow incapacitated and unable to communicate, able only to reach with two fingers to indicate his burning desire for a chicken breast. No one knows what the hell he is trying to say, but they want to do their best to accommodate him. He has lost so much, and they want to be able to fulfill whatever request he is so desperately trying to communicate. What is he doing with his fingers? Hmmm. And so Mark becomes the crazy man who milks small animals for the amusement of the nursing home staff. In this vision, I do not step forward to explain about how Mark wants a chicken breast, because I am helpless with giggles as he milks yet another neighborhood cat.
Helpless with giggles.
Perhaps I really am a crazy person.
Mark stares at me as I gasp for breath, “What is wrong with you today?”
I . . . cannot . . . breathe.
He pulls down a six-pack of cans and starts to pull one free, “Maybe I will have this.”
Wait.
Deep breath.
“ACK ACK ACK! Really, Mark? White bean chicken chili? You bought six cans of that stuff? Like we don’t have enough farting in this house with the dogs eating every overripe plum that falls from the back-yard tree, I have to deal with you and white bean chicken chili? Are you kidding me? Six cans?”
He holds up a can thoughtfully, “What? This is the perfect time for me to eat chili . . . I’ll just blame the dogs for the farts.”
“Fine. But the dogs don’t sleep with us, so your cover will be blown at night.”
And then of course, the image of blowing and covers and the strength of the fart required to blow the covers makes me giggle again.
Mark considers, “Yeah, but you’ll be sleeping.”
“What if I’m not sleeping? Ewwww . . . you eat that white bean chili, we are so not having sex.”
He holds the can for a moment, and then he replaces it on the shelf, “Fine. I will just save that chili for when you have your period.”
Wait . . . WHAT?
I turn and stare at him, and then I just explode into giggles.
He hugs me, “You are a crazy person today!”
I relax into his embrace, still laughing, “Yeah, I am all giddy. I don’t know what is wrong with me.”
He kisses the top of my head, “I’m thinking it’s almost time for chili.”
Bwahahahahaha!
Love this man.
So then we had sex.
Obviously.
