FORK YOU

We were sitting side-by-side on the couch, starring aimlessly at the TV, each clutching a bowl of butter pecan ice cream, not speaking for the creamy goodness melting seductively on our tongues. Maybe it was the soft moaning of satisfaction as each succulent bite caressed our lips or the glazed over, dead look in our eyes from boring TV but something made Guinness believe that this time, this time we were going to let his filthy self (from digging with reckless abandon in Adam's flower bed) up onto the couch. This time, despite 10 previous no's to the contrary.

He leapt, grazing Adam's feeding arm and causing him to drop his fork* to the floor. Adam forcibly removed Guinness from the couch, again, then reached down, picked up the fork, AND POISED IT OVER HIS BOWL FOR ANOTHER BITE.

I quickly plucked the fork from his grasp, disgust splayed prominently across my face.

"You can't use a fork you just dropped on the floor," I sneered, walking briskly to the kitchen to discard of the offending item and fetching him a clean one.

He took the fork I offered and smirked up on me, "And why not?"

"It had fuzz on it!"

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head at me like I was some silly, naive child. "Yes, but it wouldn't have after I took a bite."

"Been a bachelor for a while, have you?"

"Shut up."


*Yes, the man really does eat ice cream with a fork. No, I don't know why. I suspect it's because he's odd.