Man in the House

*Clickity clickity click*

My fingers were flying across the keyboard. The story was flowing easily and I was in a groove. I was no longer Amber, a twenty-something who was married with a husband and two kids. I was transported someplace else, in another life, in—

“Are you coming to bed?” my husband’s voice rang out.

Nooooo! Noooo! I can’t lose my groove yet! I just got it. Maybe if I ignored him he’d get the hint and go away. He knows that when he married a writer that I’d be eccentric after all.

But no. Tom didn’t seem to remember this. In fact he came over and rested his chin on my shoulder. He started muttering the words that I had just typed in my ear.

That’s it. My groove was officially gone. Poof. Out the window. Kaput.

I sighed and minimized the screen. Not only did I lose my inspiration but I now had a tingling feeling going up my back because I HATE when people read over my shoulder. It’s just a rude thing to do.

“What is it Tom?” I asked, irritated that I had been interrupted. Since he had been gone for nearly three months I had been writing in my book for at least an hour each night. I’m determined to finish this novel. I have a bad habit of starting one and then never going back to it.

“Are you coming to bed?” Tom repeated. He wiggled his eyebrows up and down which meant that he wanted to get down my pants.

That’s another thing I didn’t miss: being pawed at. Sometimes I just like to go to bed and not have to worry about a hand touching my ass cheek.

“No Tom,” I said. “I don’t come to bed until midnight.”

You’d think I had just informed him that I ran around our cul-de-sac in the buff while screaming, “I’m FREE! I’m FREE!” He seriously looked shocked.

“Since when?” he asked in a bewildered tone.

“Since….I don’t know, after you left? During the school year I’m in bed by 11. But during the summer I stay up until midnight,” I explained. I guess Tom wasn’t aware because he left in April when I was still going to bed earlier. When we were both in Texas I did go to bed earlier but only because it was so hot and it just wears on a body, you know? So by 11 I was exhausted from being in the heat. But now I’m back in Wyoming where it’s the land of “the high is 83!” and not “the high is 104!”

“So you aren’t coming to bed?” Tom wondered slowly.

Honestly, Tom’s brain must shut off in the evening or something. What part of this didn’t he comprehend?

“I’m not coming to bed,” I echoed and then turned back to the computer screen. Maybe I could get my groove back. I’d listen to a little music on iTunes and hopefully get inspired again and…

“I thought we could go to bed together,” Tom’s tiny voice rang out.

I sighed. How in the world am I supposed to finish my novel if I have someone asking me when I’m coming to bed every night?

“I can tuck you in,” I offered.

Tom’s hand grazed my breasts. “I’d like that….”

For Heaven’s sake.

“Tom, I’d really like to get back to my book. I’m trying to finish it and—” I began. Maybe if I explained then he’d understand.

“Oh, I can make it so this won’t take long,” Tom interrupted in his come-hither voice that actually makes me giggle. But I can’t laugh because then he’d get all insulted and I’d rather not go through a man pout if I can avoid it.

Bedtime isn’t the only thing I’m getting used to. I also forgot how much Tom hates to lose when he’s playing the Wii. He dug out the tennis game and was playing that while I was trying to type a bit in my novel and then suddenly I hear,

“You SUCK! You’re an uppity bitch!”

Excuse me?

Thank goodness the kids were upstairs. And what’s with this uppity bitch thing? I checked the screen and saw that all the players appeared to be males. Is it the new thing to call men bitches? I’m usually out of the loop. I’m still in disbelief that some styles from the 80s are coming back.

Anyhow, Tom was losing his game. The ball kept flying past him and he’d boom,

“I HIT IT! You’re CHEATING!”

I wish the house were bigger. Then I could have an office and I could write in peace. But alas, we live in military housing where everything is small. I nearly cried when I saw the closets.

There was no way I could get into a groove with Tom shouting like that.

“Tom?” I called out sweetly. “Could you keep it down? I’m trying to write.”

Tom swung around and his cartoon character missed the ball again. He emitted some choice words and I half expected him to slam his foot down in a full out pout.

“Tom! Please be quiet,” I begged.

Tom pointed angrily to the television. “I can’t help it. They’re CHEATING!”

I sucked in my breath. “I know Tom, I know.” I nodded my head as though I understood completely. I spoke to him as though I were speaking to my seven-year-old when he’s upset when he doesn’t make a basket.

Then Tom went into a rant on how the computer always cheats and how it’s not fair and blah blah blah.

So, okay, there has been some getting used to having my husband in the house again. But there is a plus!

See, Tom and I started watching this ghost show that seriously freaked me out. There was this ghost that actually SCRATCHED people. I was frightened of course but I have this compulsion to watch ghost programs. So we watched and that night Tom actually waited for me to come to bed. I think he was freaked out about the ghost show too but he’d never admit it.

When we got to bed I swore there were ghosts floating around.

“What’s that?” I whispered.

“The dresser,” Tom replied.

“Are you sure? It looks misty,” I said.

“It’s the dresser,” Tom said firmly.

There was a silence.

Then…

“What in the WORLD is that?” I gestured wildly to something swirling overhead. It looked like it was getting closer. What if we had our own ghost that scratches us?

“Amber. That’s the ceiling fan,” Tom said, annoyed.

Oh. Right. It looked sinister to me though.

I snuggled close to Tom. I wasn’t even going to mention that I swore I saw something hovering in the doorway.

“I’m glad you’re home,” I said softly.

“Why? So I can assure you that your jewelry box isn’t a ghost?” Tom said dryly.

“No. Because I MISSED you, you fool,” I answered.

Tom kissed me on the head. “I missed you too, you paranoid freak.”