“Darling, can you come outside for a moment please?” you politely ask your wife.
Your beautiful bride floats through the doorway the grace of a feather floating on a soft evening breeze. She come behind you as you turn toward your discovery and gingerly places a hand on your left shoulder.
“What is it, my love?” she asks.
“Do you know anything about this?” you inquire, pointing at a set of six-inch long metal plates on the grass near the driveway.
“Well…” she draws the word out coyly.
“I figured you wouldn’t need it where you were going. To hell, I mean. Because you would be dead. Because I killed you. No brakes.”
You sigh and shake your head. “Stop, stop.”
“What?” your wife asks with dire concern. “Did I mess it up?”
“Yeah, you messed it up! Did you just have a stroke or something?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? You’re supposed to be a black widow. You sound like a fourth grader who forgot her lines in the school production of Basic Instinct! I can’t get hard to this bullshit.”
Your wife’s lower lip trembles. She makes little effort to hold back the rising tide behind her eyes. The tears flow easily down her cheeks. Every so often she gives out a stifled sob.
“Stop crying!” you shout. “I told you I’m over that fetish!”