I say “cajun chicken salad with no dressing”, he hears “double cheese beef bacon burger with extra bacon”. I say “let’s go shopping”, he hears “let’s have sex”. And they say women are hard to understand.
These are how excerpts from my previous post “Dickson” (in Italic font) are perceived by Dickson:
I once described our chemistry as proteins that fit perfectly with specific substrates.
Protein = meat = barbecue ribs = I’m hungry
The two jigsaw puzzle pieces are apt.
Do you know what else are apt? The PS4 controller and my hands.
Our hours together flew past like minutes, and our hours apart felt like days.
She talks, I listen. It’s easier that way.
…The mature, considerate, laid back kind of love I share with him.
Ssshhh… my cartoon is starting. Look! It’s Doraemon!
The funniest things would set this sequence into action: his smile, a wriggle of his shoulders.
Usually, I wriggle my shoulders when I fart. I’ve discovered it’s quieter that way.
He understands my wants and needs.
Wine, wine, and more wine.
He apprehends my longing for achievements, my exigency to feel relevant, and the requisite role of motion in my welfare.
… He can’t fathom my family’s dietary habits.
They eat rice, dragon fruit, soup and meat. On. The. Same. Plate. At. The. Same. Time.
But we work things out. We always do.
Just nod. And wriggle shoulders. Works like a charm. Nod. Wriggle. Nod. Wriggle.
Perhaps, I benefit from a society that values individualism and desire.
A.k.a the breeding ground for opinionated women.
Whatever, I married Dickson.
Thank God I can finally have sex.