"CID!" I bellowed. He came tripping downstairs with a comb in one hand and a half-knotted tie in the other.
"Blast it, woman, can't you see that I'm trying to comb my fur and strangle my neck at the same time?"
I tsk-tsk through gritted teeth. "You're going to be late, dear. Let me have at your tie."
He hands the blue thing to me, fuming about no breakfast and a cigarette shortage. (Hallelujah! No more cheap-filtered stinkin' rolls of cheap stinkin' paper! At least for now.)
I finish adjusting his tie. He gives me a kiss and a couple of bristle-marks to boot. (I thought that he would have at least shaved for this interview!)
"Heck, what would I do without ya', Shera? Could ya' have a steak ready around nine? And don't char the edges! I'll be back late." He runs his almost-toothless comb through his hair once more.
"Yes, Sir," I chuckle, wincing a bit at the "no-charred-steak" jab. My steak is never charred. Have you seen his steak? The last time...
"And don't 'Sir' me! You're my damn wife now so get it damn straight!" he growls again, grabbing my chin and forcing my head to wobble in an unsteady nod. "Right," he continues, "see you later. Love you!"
"Love you too, Cid," I murmur, grinning ear to ear.
"Yer socks aren't matching," he calls over his shoulder as he heads out the door.
Grrrrrr.