Page 92 of Dirty Ink

So it must have come as even more of a surprise when I said loudly, too loudly, “Honey, come on. I thought we agreed!”

I wrenched my hand from Mason’s, made little fists at my side, stomped my feet petulantly. Mason just stared at me in bewilderment.

“You always do this,” I whined loudly, too loudly. “We always agree to something and then you just go and change your mind without telling me. Without talking to me. Without remembering that we’re supposed to be a team. You can’t just pick the kitchen towels without me. Especially after we agreed.”

A woman who was just about to turn her cart down the aisle we were in quickly decided against it. Mason’s head swivelled around before turning back to me. He narrowed his eyes at me. I stomped my foot.

“We agreed!” I shrieked.

I imagined what Tim would do if I tried this shit at the mall. Not that he would ever be caught dead in the mall. We had personal shoppers at Crate and Barrel for our informal kitchen needs, darling. If I raised my voice in a public place, Tim would have assumed I was having a stroke. Losing motor functions. The only way I could ever be out of control according to him was if I literally was out of control.

I imagined Tim glaring. Hissing, “Stop it. I said stop it!” Dragging me into the nearest changing room. Wagging his finger at me as I grinned against the changing table. I imagined Tim walking away. Running even. Glancing around him in the hopes that nobody had seen us together. Nobody of note at least. I imagined Tim having me committed. Feeling for my temperature. Covering my mouth and telling those around us who were watching in shock, “She’s an actress. It’s for a role. She’s not like this. Really. In real life she’s quite polite. Calm. Sweet. Innocent. Pretty. I mean, isn’t she such a sweet, innocent, pretty thing?” I imagined Tim howling when I bit his finger. I imagined him slapping me, but of course he never would.

Just like he’d never fuck me the way I wanted to be fucked. Just like he’d never see me the way I wanted to be seen. Just like he’d never, ever snatch a kitchen towel from the rack, wave it wildly, and shout at me, “No, no, love. You agreed. We never agreed. You confuse those two a lot, now don’t you?”

But Mason would.

Mason did.

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt, there in that department store. Mason whipped the kitchen towel (the ugliest one they had) around and said, loudly, crazily, perfectly, “This is your mother talking, isn’t it?”

I forced back my smile despite how good it felt, despite how fucking good it felt, and stalked forward to jab my finger at Mason’s chest.

“Don’t you dare bring my mother into this,” I shouted. “You can’t blame everything on her, you know?!”

Mason threw up his hands into the air.

“Oh, so I just happened to be the only one who got food poisoning at Thanksgiving, huh?” he hollered, his voice echoing up and down the aisle, all the way to those horrible, perfect fluorescent lights. “Thirty people all crammed into your family’s house and I’m somehow the only one!”

I gripped my hair like I was going crazy even though I was really kind of having the time of my life.

I growled and then shouted back, “It’s not my mother’s fault that you have such a weak constitution.”

Mason scoffed and crossed his hands over his chest.

“Is that what we’re calling taste now? ‘A weak constitution.’ Well, I’m sorry, dear, but I wouldn’t serve your mother’s food to my dog!”

“We don’t even have a dog!” I shrieked.

“And who decided that?” Mason bellowed. “Oh, that’s right, that’s another thing we ‘agreed’ to, isn’t it? Funny, I don’t really remember that conversation.”

People were poking their heads into either end of the aisle. Half were concerned. Half amused. I’m pretty sure I even saw a phone or two. I figured I might as well give them a show. I was a performer, wasn’t I? I grabbed some kitchen towels at random from the rack and threw them at Mason, who ducked behind raised arms.

“Well go on then,” I cried, forcing up tears. “Go find the love I obviously can’t give you in the flea-ridden arms of some dog. Go on, honey. If I’m so terrible!”

Retreating, Mason picked up some of the towels and hurled them back, a hint of a grin on his own face.

Between throws he said, “At least a dog isn’t withholding if I don’t pick the stupid kitchen towel he wants.”

I screamed and then shrieked, “We had sex last month! What more do you want?”

Mason hurled a towel at me and shouted like a madman, “Fine! Have it your way. We’ll take the ugliest one here if that makes you happy.”

I gripped the towel to my chest and smiled, a giggle barely held back.

“Now, see, darling, was that really so hard?”

Mason stared across at me, panting, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. All I did was raise an eyebrow and he advanced on me. He placed his arm over my shoulder and I practically tripped, he guided us forward so quickly.

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