She's angry. He can tell. Normally she doesn't throw things that heavy, and normally she avoids the more lethal projectiles. He considers making a dash to the bathroom. She's in the kitchen area. Why'd he agree to a studio apartment? The floor is littered with glass shards. He doesn't have slippers. Should get those some day.
He considers his speech. Would anyone be there anyway? The comforter at least gives some padding. Still, he wouldn't be surprised if that gave him a bruise on his shin. Sometimes he just doesn't see why he should bother trying. Sure, she could be beautiful, but did he really need to dodge death in the morning just to have a beautiful woman at night?
Why couldn't she put some clothes on first? He was sure she wasn't trying to be sexy, but the negligee had other ideas. It was so hard choosing his words around her. Trying to find a path around the mines that littered every path. He drew his legs up, tenting the comforter to soften the blows. Yup, that was a bruise.
His friend had told him that if he were to combine a large number of things, all of them normally positive, then one or two negatives wouldn't be a problem. There'd been some analogy to spreading weight out as you travelled over a mine field. Somehow it seemed the mines would still trigger, would with her anyway, he hadn't tried it, seemed like a lot of work. He considered the bathroom again, his toothbrush was calling longingly for him.
The worst part was that they were so different. He couldn't rely on anything he thought. Sure, sometimes he could guess what she wanted, how she'd react, but then he'd stumble into one of the cracks where they were miles apart. His buddies weren't much help, they had almost the same cracks he did. He'd even tried his buddies' wives. They'd certainly been closer, normally, but a few had been so far off he'd wound up bruised all over the next morning.
Worse than that, they switched around, one day Mary would be in synch, the next it would be Lisa, and he wasn't about to try to figure that out. He had trouble enough remembering her rhythms, let alone all the women he knew. It was getting better, well, as a general trend anyway, this morning was more of an event than a condition.
Maybe he was getting better. Maybe experience had taught him the kinds of reactions to expect, maybe he was getting in touch with his inner woman, getting more of a feel for his audience. It didn't seem likely, but he supposed it was possible.
He was at least getting better at feeling her out, at being a little subtle with his requests, his hints, his proposals. He could balance all the factors, maybe not perfectly now, but he sort of sensed where things were going, well, normally, not now. Now all he could sense was where things were flying. What he wouldn't give for a user's manual. What he wouldn't give for a woman who was fiery after he'd brushed his teeth, had a shower and eaten breakfast.
Document Name: tb.ident.wasp.htm
Copyright (c) 1997 -- Mike Fletcher
Reproduction for other than personal use prohibited without express written permission from the author.