Letter to My Husband as He Tries to French Kiss Me, by Devorah Blachor
Gosh, it’s been a long day, hasn’t it? I’m beat. If I closed my eyes right now, I’d fall into Stage 4 sleep and stay there until someone shook me so violently that I’d wake up and say something crazy in a panic-stricken voice like, “Where are the elbow pipettes?”
Let me say that it’s so great to know that you’re still attracted to me. It makes all the hours we spend guessing which of our couple friends still have good sex even more entertaining. Remember when we started dating and you used to spontaneously massage the arches of my feet because you claimed you enjoyed it? In those days I’d say things to myself like, “The guy’s a total romantic,” and this completely short-sighted and self-serving assessment really helped trick me into a monogamous relationship. And now here we are! And at no extra cost, here’s your tongue, too!
You sure do like to French kiss, don’t you? Swollen glands, work deadlines, nausea—nothing deters you from this fun activity. You’re single-minded like a microbiologist examining mouse mammary glands over and over and over because you’re sure that it will either cure cancer or help produce an acetate that will revolutionize the way we produce lipstick.
It reminds me of that time years ago when we were at a party and the woman with the boobs was so amused by your joke that she had to put her hand on your chest to hold herself up while she laughed. And then afterwards when I protested that you were flirting, you dismissed my concerns as paranoid and a second later you were French kissing me and all I could feel was bitterness about those early foot massages because when we moved in together, you abandoned them to become a cybernetically-enhanced supersoldier battling aliens while attempting to uncover the secrets of Halo.
Anyway, all that’s behind us now because the woman with the boobs moved to Lisbon for some ill-conceived reason and we got married, didn’t we? And what a kiss that was under the chuppah! Wasn’t the Rabbi surprised! I’ve never seen that shade of red on a human being before, and that includes the sunburned Danish couple we met in Marbella.
You’ve been such a supportive partner, too. Like on the day I got laid-off and you found me sobbing on the floor of the kitchen with an empty bottle of Chi Chi’s Appletini, a pot of lukewarm gravy, and some pita bread. You took me in your arms and told me everything was going to be okay, and then—and I’ll never forget this one—you French kissed me which, given what happened next, was almost heroic. Afterwards, when we’d finished dousing the kitchen tiles with bleach and gone outside to breathe in air not infused with the scent of vomit, you didn’t French kiss me, I don’t think. But it’s all kind of a blur so maybe you did. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Finally, since every woman loves to tell the detailed story of her childbirth, I am well aware that the one I have just gone through was not the worst, but, clocking in at just over 30 hours, it certainly wasn’t the best, either.
One day, when this three-minute old newborn is older, you’ll tell her how, at the end of the labor, I tried to climb off the table and go home and how you had to physically restrain me so that I’d stick around and deliver her. And then I’ll laugh, much like the booby woman at that party, and I’ll tell her what a beautiful moment it was when she was born, but also how I felt so fucking relieved that is was over, and how I was so exhausted that I started hallucinating that the doctor was a giant capybara with Juicy Couture bifocals, and how I was wondering how I could possibly stay awake another second, and how at that very moment, you leaned in to me for a probing, tonguey kiss.
The mother of your four-minute-old baby
The Humor Section features a piece of original humor writing each week. To submit, send an email to Brian Boone.