Whose Sorry Ass Was THAT in the Middle of the Night?

In this godawful moment, you that short-stuff mouth almighty lead in a movie scene every fresh director wants method acting to spontaneously deliver without multiple takes.

   You brought atmospheric charge to the room. No doubt. Silken dark chocolate negligee trimmed with ivory lace cut effortlessness, convulsing in a way that any husband would find endearing.

   Invariably sensual.

   Natalie-sexiness in spades.

   But no.

You held not one intention of givin’ it up tonight.

   Virtual BDSM hints absent the core impact that makes 'em worthwhile.

   Retribution.

   Why on Saturday at 2:06am when yo ass could be fulfilling one of the top tier pleasures of spousal relations?

*SIGH*

   Weekend ruined.

   You got rapid fire mouth, Kween.

Always did.

   A gift courtesy of Big Mama.

   Swear down your Grandma must’ve been the force that created nature.

   Had no other choice but to accept an inseparable personality trait and live with it. You own this heart and backside. Even sometimes when it grates and grinds the self-same nerves supply into disintegration.

   “Tyrone, best BELIEVE you ain’t leaving them dishes when the kitchen been cleaned twice already. Get dat ASS up and…”

   “Honey Luv. MISS ANOTHA OB/GYN APPOINTMENT!  Go ‘head. That exclusive labor & delivery entry ticket gon’ be labor & delivery REVOKED! Mess around, goddammit. Think all ah dis heartburn, swollen feet, constipation, tiredness and more happening here, and deadass can’t show up for some simple shit…”

   “Ain’t called the plumber yet, but on the sofa watching game??? Toilet blockage a dealbreaker, Ty! DEAL. BREAK. ERR! Can book a room for one at the Radisson and leave a sat-sofa ASS glued to NBA semi-finals without a second—AAAY!!! Not lissenin’??? Enjoy the frozen bedchamber tonight, LeBron.”

   Okay. You were on point about that last one.

   Hands up.

Guilty.

You right 'bout lotsa stuff (but can’t give that one up just yet).

   Your other repeat tirades run on a loop…

Sheesh!

   And damned if a Brotha don’t get TIYAD, he AIN’T a Brotha!

   Fah real tho.

   Take an anonymous* opinion poll of ‘hubsters’ who develop next-level coping skills for tuning out da woman.

Essentials for sanity…

   (*No man in his right frickin' mind wanna live on the other side of them kinda repercussions.)

   Plumber took over two hours, so yeah…good call, Babe. Parts and service cost almost $500.

   Ouch.

   Before it went there, you showed that camouflaged care as always. Your best attempts at de-escalation. Cue drops, precursors to a stage set for a wild ride night. Checking the near empty Heineken six-pack on the coffee table…refilling the pretzels and popcorn bowls…a tender soft nuzzle against shoulder…hand inside shirt.

   But LAWD knows how you haaaate what your hubby loves.

   Basketball.

   Tension steady building against withering orchids and aloe vera on the fireplace mantelpiece you asked me to water two days ago when you were round da clock with care for Nyah. A viral something or other. Needed to leave hands off sweet baby girl.

Better now and staying at Big Mama's for the weekend.

   Yeah, the signs all present and accounted for had an accountant been present.

   But first quarter, and the Knicks Shooting Guard Jordan Clarkson already on his second foul.

   Fuck.

   By the time screeching about Radisson hit these eardrums, it was waaay late. Razor sharp emotional blades out and you showered in silence after the plumber finished and left.

   Turned in super early.

   Time-lapsing the only diffusion tactic applied, hints of mega-fails.

   Watching the game uninterrupted?

   Therapy.

   Now stalling big time.

   You said years ago, “Sometimes men act pretty effin stupid.”

   Late night dinner eaten alone, now setting this one up for dilemmas:

1.     A colon that needs emptying.

2.     Sneaking past you to the bathroom without the lights on.

   Held off as long as, cuz even colons more scared of you

    But urgent. Insides busting…

   Slither noiseless by you on the bed and make it. Whew! There exists a merciful Creator!

   Dropped pants to sit and…

   Immediately thought...must be a massive seizure. Out the blue with scorch lightning strikes.

   Not a thing to stop the sensory assault violations as every item on the bathroom counters crash-splinter on custom made Moroccan floor tiles. Arms flail in darkness punctuated by forceful high-grade obscenities.

    Possibly yelled loud enough to wake the neighbours who live half a mile away, so of course, you rushed in and flipped the light switch, ready for anything.

   When back against a wall, you’d grind any other ride or die chick to fine desert dust.

   You, the first and last for life, but you ain’t needed as witness right here.

   Reasons soon obvious.

   Didn’t even take seconds with squinty-eyed sleepiness to piece together an ambulance was not gonna be necessary.

   This scenario a memory nevah to be lived down.

   You just got a front row retribution seat.

   Wish you’d leave, but pretty sure that ain’t happening. You see palpable violation felt and ain’t about to even 'li'l bit help.'

   Shock and embarrassment years in the making.

Vindication.

   Shit literally everywhere.

   Wise woman told a tuned-out husband countless times BEFORE walking down the aisle.

   Shhh…

   ...but the facial expression on your Beloved's for not putting the toilet seat back down like you done asked a thousand times…

Brown ass wet dripping and shit pieces everywhere.

Knees hit chest.

Nothing to hold on to.

Felt like an unexpected, unholy bathroom assault.

Yuck.

  You been steady busting a gut for at least five minutes already and oughta wet yaself, but nah.

  Between gasps and the tears streaming down your face, you manage words to seal in the moment,

   “Who the sorry ass NOW, Babe?”

   One less thing you’ll have to rant about for the rest of matrimonial life, unless senility kicks in.

   Not flippin’ likely.

Thank you for your attentive read!

Bless you in bunches!