Queen of wishful thinking

I was lounging on the lazy chair playing time-wasting games on my phone when my husband returned from his morning jog. It was a sweltering 37deg C in Kuala Lumpur.

“Isn’t that like too hot to be outside, trying to outrun your equally unfit buddy around the jogging track?” I asked, eyes fixed at the screen while my fingers tapped frantically to save the wobbly avatar.

Instead of giving me some smart-assed quip, he leaned forward and wrapped his sweaty body over me. Then, he rubbed his oily stubble against my cheek. EEEEeeeooowwwww! So gross!

Attempting to move away, I misjudged the space between me and the edge of the lazy chair, rolled over and promptly fell clumsily onto the floor; with the chair tipping precariously.

Unfortunately, my husband thought that was the most hilarious sight in the world and he has not stopped reminding me of it since.

“Hey! just that frigging one time and you make it sound as though I fall all over the place all the time”, I protested, only to have him re-enact my fall by twirling his index finger in a downward spiral. Totally juvenile!

After lunch, he asked me what I would like to do for the rest of the day —apart from falling off chairs? I pretended not to hear the last part of his question. To be honest, I wished we could what other families would normally do on weekends: Drive some place off the beaten track for interesting foods. Catch a movie. Go window shopping… instead of catching up on sleep/work/emails which was our weekend routine.

“Let’s go to the pasar malam,” I proposed, referring to the night market at the town square where one can get everything from fresh vegetables and local delicacies to clothes and fake branded handbags to traditional medicinal herbs sellers guaranteeing “the ultimate in conjugal bliss.”

I can picture him going to the pasar malam. He would probably spend his time training his eyes on the floor, trying to avoid puddles of water formed by melting ice dripping off the makeshift fish stalls; or covering his nose at the rancid smell of food rotting in the nearby stagnant drains; or shielding his eyes against the burning diesel fumes coming from generators used to light up the stalls at night. And the crowds…shoulder to shoulder … intruding into his personal space. Arrrgghhhh! I know how much he hates that. LOL

“Sure,” he grinned.

“Seriously?” This was too good to be true.

“This evening?” I asked again, making sure that I was hearing the right thing.

“Yup. But first, you must do that roll-from-the-chair-onto-the-floor trick for me again”

“And I am the queen of wishful thinking,” I sighed.

 

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Andrea Boult

Blogs short stories at www.justwritelah.wordpress.com. Occasionally I blog about private equity investing.

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