Just as I thrust my hands into the sudsy fluff of dishwater, my husband comes from behind and embraces me. He nuzzles my neck and whispers naughty things. While this should be a romantic moment, I sigh and squirm to face him. “Why do you always feel amorous in the kitchen?” I ask. He simply smirks and pulls me tighter. “Seriously. Is it because I seem all wenchy and subservient?”
He releases me just a tiny bit. “It’s not the kitchen. It’s you. You’re so seductive I can’t help myself.”
I sigh even louder and stare into his eyes. “Really? Smelling like steamed broccoli and having a grease spatter on my shirt is seductive?” I look down and realize my pants have a flour hand print tattooed on the hip, and one toe is sticking out of a hole in my sock. A Victoria’s Secret model I am not.
“Yep. You’re adorable.”
I sigh again and begin to silently question his sanity. Noting my lack of enthusiasm he takes my hand and pulls me into the living room. “Now, where were we?” he says. This time I kiss him back and mean it.
Having a goofy husband who sees through the collateral damage of cooking? It is the best part of my day.
