“That’s not what I said.”
The cat still purred, rubbing his velvety neck across my leg.
“Yes. You did.”
I crossed my eyes at Markus as he gave me his stare of doom. He was such a pig. His shirt was wrinkled, stained, and his scent was like a teenage boy in mid July. I wondered why I even bothered with him.
“Whatever, I’m done arguing with you.”
I walked casually toward the garage door; my aim was the car, a gas station, park, anywhere. But of course he simultaneously barred my way with his huge arms. I never looked at those tree trunks with disgust before, and I was surprised to meet them with such an alternate. They had a way with me, always had. Somehow they were friendly, but this time I would not give in to their sweet-talk. So I merely turned around and headed to the bathroom where I locked myself in, knowing I was done for. I couldn’t argue though, no getting past him anyway.
Sitting on the floor of the bathroom was uneventful to say the least. Even after the first seconds. I heard Markus stomp his way out the front door, just like a two year-old without a playmate. No doubt he was smirking in the yard, knowing he had made the last and final move, which of course in his mind, made him the winner.
“If you think I’m going to follow you Markus you overgrown monkey butt.”
I couldn’t call him anything else, not even something profane, least of all something cruel. I watched him through the tiny window above the toilet, sighing as I got down. The cat purred. I stroked his neck, feeling comfort rush through me as he responded to my touch. He wasn’t even my cat. Markus.
Ever since our marriage we had a dream. A dream of a big house, kids, a pool, vacations to exotic places, and silly things like evenings of poetry, lying on the grass like plants, hours of just becoming part of the scenery, and one with the earth. Even the cat, which Markus insisted upon calling Ichabod, was a dream once. I hated his choice of names though. Ichabod. It was some sort of fascination I guess. All it reminded me of was that story, the headless horseman, which wasn’t very reassuring. What would he want for children’s names? I shuddered. I could see him liking a name like Hubert, or Henrietta, names I thought were completely ridiculous. I couldn’t even remember what we were fighting about, and yet we still were stubborn, unyielding fools. Cold in the dark, and alone.
It was past four when I finally crept from my sanctuary of linoleum. I tip toed to the fridge and grabbed fresh batch of supplies with purpose, a tub of double chocolate fudge brownie, a spoon, and a carton of half eaten raspberries, which was a luxury for our intern salaries. With stealth I moved towards the bedroom, moving fast, peering around corners. As I entered the fortress I checked to make sure I was the only one.
“Markus?”
Nothing, just Ichabod.
Then I positioned myself, jumped, and just before I hit the bed, a loud rumble and a weak yell erupted as ice cream flew. A sheet monster grabbed me as I fell into his trap, and as the ice cream and raspberries came back down in flurries, it licked my face with its horrid tongue.
“No!” I cried. “I’m still angry with you Markus Dean!”
He just laughed and kissed me. Not caring about my pathetic anger. His strong arms held me still, and even as I struggled they wouldn’t let go. They were saying things, mostly “stop struggling you crazy girl, can’t you tell that I love you?” They said other things too, whispered words of regret, apologies held back for pride’s sake, now unrelenting emanated from his hands. After the arms stopped talking, and the ice cream had all but covered our backs, he pressed my eyes into his. I tried to hide from them, tried to find a crevice in the gold flecks there, but there were none. Like searchlights, they pored light like orange juice, sweet nectar of truth and light, one that I had forgotten. I remembered then how much I craved it, needed it, and with all my soul desired it to be mine and mine alone.
The cat just purred with delight as she licked ice cream from our hair, our ears, our hands. As the comic nature of it all occurred to me, I laughed till the arms were soft like dough in my fingers. The arms laughed too, and the chest, and the mouth. We both laughed like fools, love-stricken college sweethearts, like it was always summer, just another day on the beach. The low rumbling drew me near, and despite the sticky residue, the pride, and even the names, I couldn’t have loved him more.
And the ice cream is a nice touch! 
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