Tuesday, 9:00 a.m. Day off.
Manny pounces on me in bed, waking me up.
“You’re here,” he says, eyes big with wonder.
I mumbled something along the lines of, “Touché, and I have to use the facilities, so you’d best move your weight off my midsection.”
“I dreamed that we went kayaking and you were eaten by a shark, and I was in my kayak as I watched you get ripped apart piece by piece, and the shark ate all of you except your hand, and then I just sat in my house alone–with nothing but your hand preserved in a jar to keep me company–and was sad. And it was a horrific dream, and you’re heeeeere.” He plants a messy kiss on my cheek.
“I was getting eaten by a shark, and you sat in your kayak and watched?”
“Conclusion: we cannot go kayaking today.”
We went kayaking.
I wasn’t eaten, but it was still a bad choice.