Grouch

“You’re being a grouch-grouch,” he says as I sit on the couch and sulk.

My feelings are hurt over something stupid and I’m secretly ashamed. But if my feelings are hurt, I reason, it must not have been that stupid.

(My feelings, of course, are infallible.)

I scrunch my face into a out, my lips overly pursed and my brow furrowed. He laughs at me – I look four. His laughter, of course, makes me angry and I sigh.

(Sighing is one of the female’s most mastered talents.)

I grow from a four year old to a bear in a matter of seconds. I growl and huff and knock things over. And like anyone facing a bear would do, he steps into the cover of the trees, lying low until the bear goes away.

At the end of the day I am myself again and I try to pay my penance with kisses.

“I’m sorry I’m such a grouch-grouch,” I whisper onto my pillow.

“It’s alright,” he answers in the dark. “I love you anyway.”

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