"Shut UP!" I screamed at him, "SHUT UP! Can't you just listen to me for one FREAKING MINUTE?"
"Well if you weren't being so darn stubborn." Jesse muttered. Not loud, but loud enough that I heard.
"Shut up!" I screamed again.
He looked quite scared.
"Susannah . . . Susannah, I hate to- er – I mean"
"What?" I snapped.
He mumbled something.
"P.M.S? You think this is a simple case of P.M.S?"
"Sorry, Sorry—"
"You can take your apology, and stick it—"
Jesse looked scandalized.
Well with Jesse, a Lady even saying the word 'Butt' embarrassed him profusely.
"May I ask, Susannah, what it is I have done?" he said, his eyes going hard like they always did when he gets angry.
I felt a great satisfaction at that anger. I wanted to make him feel, feel a small part of the anger inside of me.
"I know what you haven't done!" my voice reaching alarming decibels. "You haven't taken that wiener outside!"
"Excuse me?" He said.
"The wiener on the counter top!" I howled.
"But that was the hotdog the neighbour's kid had."
"I don't CARE! It smells bad and I don't want it in the house!"
He took it out.
I got the distinct feeling that there was another thing he'd like to throw outside, but I was way too heavy. That's another thing. I haven't been eating much lately, and yet I'm piling on the weight.
Jesse probably thought I was getting fat. He probably started this argument just so he could be divorced from his corpulent 'wife'.
He doesn't even love me anymore.
Its seems like ever since our honeymoon, all our relationship has consisted of is S—
Never mind little ones.
"Anything else your highness?" Jesse said, letting the door bang behind him. "Any other charming task you wish me to accomplish?"
And they lied when the said that's what marriage was going to be like.
I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms snootily.
"I mean it." Jesse said sarcastically. "Would you like me to kiss your feet perhaps?"
"STOP IT!" I screeched. "WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS?"
"Me?" he said incredulously. "I didn't start this! What is WRONG with you today?"
"Oh, so now you think something's WRONG with me?" I demanded, bursting into tears.
"Querida, what is the matter?" he said, crossing the room, anger dissolved in an instant.
I just sniffed.
He doesn't care about the answer anyway.
"Did I leave the toilet seat up again?"
Did he? Is this just his guilty conscience?
"Did I forget to put the toilet brush back?
Men. What WOMAN would be guilty of such a crime?
"Why are you so upset?"
"How would I know?" I said tiredly. "My mood fluctuates at the drop of a paper clip, I'm piling on the weight, I want to at avocado all the time – bearing in mind I hate the stuff – and I can't keep anything down in the mornings."
And I haven't cycled. But I didn't say that out loud. There are some things that you just don't share. Even with your spouse.
Its weird. My symptoms I mean. Anyone might think I was—
No.
I can't be.
I mean – No.
What if – Whoa.
No, Whoa.
I just sat there. Suddenly silent. Jesse was looking at me with a funny expression on his face now.
What would he say? What would he do? Would he be happy? Or upset? Would he—
"Uh, Jesse?" I said tentatively. "What would you say if I was to tell you that I was . . . pregnant?"
"Got there have you?" he said with a smile.
Wait.
"You Knew?" I began hysterically. "Why didn't you--?"
"Only when you started listing the symptoms."
"Why didn't you SAY something? Its not my fault I haven't got QUITE your mental SPEED—"
I was cut off. By what appeared to be a congratulatory . . . action.
Which was followed by more actions.
And a hell of a lot of ecstatic screaming.
Sorry, too much Information?
Suppose you don't want to know about my new bowel incapacities then?