We’re again sitting on my sofa, watching the telly. Well, Danny’s watching it. I’ve relented and let him put on a football match, although he very generously offered to go watch it with his mates in the Old Market. I think it’s been on for about ten hours now and evidently it isn’t even half over.
He does look very cute sitting here, I think. His hair is kind of a mess, he hasn’t shaved today, and he’s wearing old rumpled sweats. Grunge-sexy. I lean over and kiss him on the neck, that little place just under his ear that never fails to get a response. He kisses me back, a quick peck with the side of his mouth, his eyes never leaving the telly. Then, “Oh, you humpy hoors!” he shouts, at the absolute top of his lungs. I think my right eardrum has been shattered.
“Jaysus Christ, Dan!” I shout back.
He looks in my direction like he can’t remember quite who I am or what I’m doing there.
“Oh, sorry… Sam,” he says, probably just about remembering my name.
“I guess the honeymoon is over, then,” I announce after a few moments.
“Huh?” he asks.
“Last week you couldn’t keep your hands off me, now I might as well be a teapot.” I’m not really as annoyed as I’m letting on; I had expected this more or less. There’s just no way you can compete with a football match. But I’m not going to let him out of it too easily either.
“Ah, Sam, it’s not like that, it’s just- it’s Man United!” he pleads.
“I know, it’s okay.” I pick up a book. Guess I’m on my own for the next six or seven hours. Dan turns his attention back to the telly because God forbid he should miss a second of this match that will only have the good bits replayed about fifty or sixty times.
“We could do it at the half,” he offers after a while.
I start to laugh at him, another one of little Danny’s little jokes, but I see something in his expression.
“Oh my God, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
He looks too caught out for it not to be true. I can’t believe it. I punch him on the arm a few times, hard.
“Eeww!” I can’t come up with a more erudite response right now. He couldn’t possibly get any less romantic.
He actually has the nerve to look surprised. “But, I thought you wanted to!”
“Why don’t I just give you a blow job while you watch the goddam match instead?” Don’t say it, don’t you dare say it…
“Okay, sounds good to me. Could you bring me another beer first?” He said it, the fucker. Although I know he’s just being cheeky this really pisses me off. I think about getting a bottle of beer and pouring it all over his head.
Instead I get up and storm away, into the bedroom, and slam the door. A moment later I open it again and shout, “Poet my arse!” and slam it even harder.
“You’re bein’ a damn girl again!” he shouts back. But I know in five seconds he’s back to being engrossed in the stupid match- I hear him shout “Ah, you bastard!” Irish men are such pigs.

I wonder how long I have to stay in here to prove my point. Dammit, I left my book in the other room.

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