A fairy tale, without the fairies.
After a decade or so of marriage and one or two revelations about the resultant offspring, a man's wife announced that, of the two of them, he was almost certainly (read blatantly, as she's a tactful soul) , the one with the Aspergers gene.
In truth this was debatable, but he accepted the charge quite willingly, knowing the alternative was to consider other reasons for his ineptitude. Reasons such as running away from home at 16, not to face the wide world and make his fortune but to live with his doting granny; or simply being a late developer, remaining a little too long as one of those self indulgent, egocentric types - wedged firmly into the teenage condition otherwise known as 'What's in it for me?'
This blindness was a small scar on an otherwise good heart. His love for his wife was never expressed as nights out or romantic gestures or compliments, but by emailing her jokes, needing to read things aloud to her if he found them amusing or important; by phoning her every single day (sometimes twice a day) if he was away from home.
One morning, well into his middle age, he woke up in a hotel bed, off on another jaunt for his employers, and realised he had never sent her a real letter. Never. He rectified this.
The missive was received with curiosity and enthusiasm and a suspicion that, on this trip, he must for once be bored out of his mind. His wife was startled then, to put it mildly, when on his return he hugged her to him and referred to it as his first ever 'love' letter to her.
A month or so passed until, one night, having watched a television programme about health and the ageing process (and learned of the three activities which stave off heart disease, namely laughter, exercise, and orgasm), they retired to bed, to read. She chose to continue a book which had occupied her during his absence. There, acting as a bookmark, was the letter.
Nothing would have been made of this, except this night he decided to pay her attention. He decided, as soon as she had settled into her book, to interrupt her and make her laugh:
Her: Aww pack it up!
Him: Come on, you have to have your fifteen minutes of laughter, Its good for the heart.
Her: What, thats as opposed to my orgasm then is it? Bastard!
Him: I'm too tired!
Her: You were bloody born too tired. Oh well you have a jolly good chuckle to yourself then dear. Sod off.
pause as they get back to their books
Her: Oh darling look, I've found your love letter to me. Aww that's so special. May I read it to you?
Him: Uhoh.
Her:
Dear, Not 'darling' you note, just 'dear'
Sunday Morning. Well OK but a date at the top of the page would have told me that. Lots of news so far, then.
As I lay here on the bed thinking of you - aha! Things are looking up! - and the kids - Hmm - it dawned on me the little things I miss most. OK getting better again, here comes the second paragraph.
Noise being one - you rotten swine! - it is quiet this morning - see, I KNEW you only wrote this because you were bloody bored - (compared with last night) and the TV doesn't replace the joyful noise of Son and Daughter killing one another.
Last night they had a birthday party for someone in the hotel which got a bit loud. The crooner they got in as entertainment was crap and very loud. Well ha. Now you know how I feel when you put some god awful band like Kraftwerk on full blast on a Saturday morning.
It finished around 11.30 but then there was a slow troll of people (drunk) coming up to their rooms. So, lonely, bored, jealous, and I think I'll write to the wife. True so far? Ok, here we go:
I look out of the window this morning to see more rain. The forecast is for a fine afternoon (yeah I bet). Oh darling! Bless you! I must be the only woman in the whole world whose love letter contains a weather report.
I am missing you more than ever and cannot wait to get back for a cuddle and the rest. Hang on matey - lets get this straight - the story so far appears to be 'I miss the kids, I missed a party, its raining, get ready for a bonk'. Right?
Tell Son that I love him lots for being 'the man about the house' and Daughter for being an angel. Oh my God you've surpassed yourself, not only a weather report but added neolithic sexism, just for good measure. Guaranteed to have any woman hot and waiting, I'm sure.
~~~~
Some women might move heaven and earth to find a man that it was near impossible to offend. He was, and is, such a man and by this time was not only laughing himself (even more) stupid, but positively revelling in it. Orgasm schmorgasm.
~~~~~
Her: Right, fucker. I'm going to bloody blog this.
He feigned fear, dragged all the duvet off her to huddle it under his chin and continued laughing.
Revenge is sweet.
7 comments:
"Right, fucker. I'm going to bloody blog this."
Ooh! Dark, dire, dreadful threats! And revenge is sweet, but fnot fattening.
"fnot"?
Ahh, that's lovely :).
And I think 'fnot' is a fantastic word :).
Oh, we love Wulfie anyway. Mr Z is off now for twenty days, so if you don't mind, I'll copy & print the juicy parts and keep them handy on the bed-side table to fuel my fantasies.
Mr Z used to send postcards with simple thoughtful, loving sentiments. Now I get emails with weather reports, and Yankees statistics.
Pffft.
Zilla has given me 1 of my 15 minutes of laughter today LMAO
But does he ILLUSTRATE them?
My all-time favourite 'love-letter' (The Man leaves little notes for me when he's not going to be home when I get in) was one in which he explained that he had been given a surprise by a stray cat that got in upstairs, when he thought he was alone. (We do not have a cat.) This was such a shocking incident (to him and to the cat, I suspect) that his English failed him, and an illustration had to fill in the blanks. The Man draws almost worse than I do. There was a little stick figure man, leaping high and screaming, and a little stick figure cat streaking for the window with its hair standing on end. Everything was labelled in case it wasn't clear. 'Cat.' 'Me.' 'Window.' 'Hallway.' 'Door to our room.'
It ended with love and kisses (for me, not the cat) and made me laugh uncontrollably. Partly it was the picture, which managed to be incompetent and extremely expressive all at once, and partly it was the sudden love and kisses at the end, which somehow came across as gratitude that I do not shock him as badly as that cat did.
It's true, too. I don't, usually.
Aren't actual, real love-letters the ones where you can read between the lines and don't need to say everything?
First before I get rolling and forget, I love Badaunt's story, and so articulate was she in the telling that I could see the note in my mind as if it were a comic strip. Awesome.
Okay chicky, you smuggled us into your bedroom with you, and I thought it was about to get steamy and then you had me laughing like a twit.
This letter, this scenario is priceless and shows that you two have something that will keep you together and in love/laughter for as long as you both have your incredible senses of humor, (or is it sense of humors? What ever.)
I love that you blogged this, and your letter is sheer profundity in regards to the human past twenty.....and thirty lifestyle, wooing patterns.
Laughter is a natural high, consider me ripped.
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