Dave went on a fishing expedition this weekend, for which he had to be up and out of the house by 5am. When I told him I wanted to get up with him to see him off, he told me that was silly, and he’d let me sleep.
“But I need to kiss you goodbye!” I protested.
“Why? It’ll be 5am. You can kiss me when I get home.”
I was ashamed to admit my reason. “If… if something happens to you, I won’t have kissed you goodbye. I don’t think I could live with that.”
“Happens to me?” He laughed. “I’m going fishing. For a day. Not even a whole day.”
“You could drown! The boat could sink!”
“I can swim.”
“But with those stupid boots of yours, you’ll sink to the bottom like a rock and meet a watery demise! Never to be seen again!”
He put his hand on mine to reassure me. “We’ll stay out of the deep end. I’ll be fine.”
Not willing to push the issue and force him to wear floaties in front of his friends, I relented.
“Fine. But can you leave me a note, so I have that to cling to during the lonely nights when I’m mourning your tragic fishing death?”
“Oh,” he smiled, “I’ll leave you a note.”
This is what I found on the kitchen counter in the morning:
Sigh. I married a smartass.