Mits

Recently, one balmy Sunday afternoon, Sherry and I lay in bed delighting lazily in each other’s company and discussing any number of the infinite topics a drowsy couple in love might discuss on such an afternoon. The sunlight fanning in through the curtained windows. The air conditioner hissing indifferently. Sherry on her back, and I on my side facing away, she reaches over and touches my bare shoulders then creeps her hand around and begins rubbing my chest. I suddenly sit up with a jerk. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demand. “What?” “You were fondling me like I have tits!” “What? No I wasn’t. I was caressing you.” I narrow my eyes at her, guarded and accusing. “No, you were groping me the way I grope you. Pervert.” There’s a brief staring contest. The corners of Sherry’s mouth pull up in an ever so subtle smirk, almost unnoticeably, and I eye her with distrust before lying down and rolling back over. “My body is chiseled and taut. I’m a man of wax.” I grumble. “I don’t have man tits. I don’t have mits.” “I know, love." She says. "I know.”