Page 243 of Storm over the Caribbean
Your friend? Yes. And I have already and plan to again at the earliest opportunity.
Not that I would say this out loud. Firstly, because I did not wish to deal with an irate feminist, and secondly, well…
Glancing at my wife who was gazing at me with fiery eyes, I was once again reminded of the great truth that, sometimes, words simply were not needed. Sliding an arm around her waist, I turned and led her out of the park. For the first time since the day began, I didn’t feel so irate about this whole event anymore. Not with my wife in my arms and the look in her eyes promising so, so much more.
I was a greedy man.
Paper is Also Far Too Expensive
(Chapter 13, “A Drop in the Bucket”, from Mr Ambrose’s Perspective)
***
I loved my wife. I really, truly did (although I would never admit it with witnesses present). But sometimes…
“Bluurgh!”
We were tracking through the green hell that was the Caribbean jungle on the island we were stuck on. Both of us were sweating buckets and running out of water fast. If we didn’t find something to drink soon, we would die. And in this dire time, what did my darling wife choose to do?
“Bluuurgh!”
Yes, that. You guessed correctly. Congratulations.
“Bleeargh!”
Did I also mention it was still before dawn and she was having morning sickness?
“Urgh! Bluurgh!”
“You know,” I informed the hunched figure of my wife as I stepped up to her from behind, “right now is not the best time to be regurgitating fluids.”
Lifting her head, she glared back at me over her shoulder. Her glare would probably have been a little more impressive if she hadn’t been pale as a sheet and swaying ever so slightly. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Next time I have to vomit from morning sickness, I’ll swallow it right back down again!”
“Adequate.”
“You—” She did not get the chance to tell me what she thought of my stellar social skills. Which was fortunate for me, but less so for her, because, well…
“Bleeeargh!”
…the reason she was interrupted was less than pleasant.
“Come here.”
Reaching out, I slid my arm around her from behind, carefully holding her in place while, with the other hand, I tugged her hair out of her face. Silently, I held her until her stomach stopped rebelling. When the attack of morning sickness finally ceased, I pulled her back against my chest, holding her close.
“Better?”
“Y-yes.” She melted into my embrace.
“Adequate. Then we can proceed.” Reaching behind me into my makeshift bag, I, in my infinite generosity, offered her a semi-fresh slice of crab meat. “Breakfast?”
“Bleeeargh!”
Apparently, my infinite generosity was not appreciated.
It took an irksome amount of time for her stomach to settle down for a second time. When it finally did, she looked exhausted and drained. Not just metaphorically, but physically. Drained of water.
I hesitated. We should be rationing, but…
