It's not that I’m saying I want my husband to imagine me in lesbian relationships. Or threesomes. Or anything of the sort. So you know.
Now, Nick likes to get this roasted garlic in oil. And then eat it by the pound, practically.
Which would be all fine and good, except that it’s a smell that persists long past the brushing of the teeth. Plus, it’s a smell that comes out in many, many ways.
I don’t know if you’re a big garlic eater, or you live with one, but if you do, I imagine you know precisely what I’m talking about. And personally, I think all the oil makes it much worse.
The nights that he eats it, he always offers me some, so we will be in the same boat. And I’ll have a piece or two. Not 54.
End result of the 54 cloves? It is hard to choose which end you would rather have face away from you in bed. It’s vile.
So he went on a garlicstravaganza the other night. And we got in bed. And we were kissing and chatting.
And then he exhaled massively.
Large, warm wafts of pungent garlic breath leapt towards me. It was so strong that I could think of was large gobs of garlic oil washing over me.
And I was all, “Goddammit Nick!"
He knows I hate this. The big garlic nights are always foul.
“Men are so disgusting! I knew I should’ve been a lesbian!”
(Yes, massive hypocrisy abounds.)
He paused for a long moment. During which time, in my mind, he was of course envisioning me in some steamy lesbian entanglement.
And then said, “Which reminds me. When you go through the tolls on 95, make sure to hold my EZ-Pass up against the windshield.”
“I. . .This reminds you? How?”
“Well, I was thinking about you doing stuff with other women. . .”
“And. . ?”
“And what I imagine you doing with other women this weekend is sitting in traffic at the tolls. When you don’t need to.”