P and I are on our second date, seeing The Pelican Brief. In the last 5 minutes of the movie, he leans over to whisper something to me.
P: I suddenly have a craving for pot.
Me: Do you smoke pot?
Circa 1997, we've been married for about a year and are living in our first apartment. I wake up from a dead sleep and see P crawling under our computer desk with a flashlight and a tube of something.
Me: What are you doing?
Me: What time is it?
P: Two a.m.
Me: Okay. *goes back to sleep*
G is about three and I'm giving her a bath one evening while P watches television in the living room.
P (shouting down the hall): MAKE SURE YOU WASH HER ASS!
G (shouting back): WHAT'S MY ASS?
I can barely finish the bath because I'm weak with laughing.
G and I have been blowing bubbles in the backyard with one of those forty-nine cent bottles of bubble liquid. I come inside with the liquid all over my fingers and hold my hand out to P.
Me: Feel this.
P (recoiling): What is it?
Me: It's bubble liquid. It's perfectly safe. Go ahead.
P (rubbing some between his thumb and index finger): Okay, what about it?
Me: It's the exact same consistency as, um, female lubrication.
P (still rubbing): Oh, shit, it is! (pause) But it's not as warm.
I'm in bed with the lights out and my laptop open, writing. P joins me.
P: What are you writing?
Me: A story.
P: Is it about that guy called [name]?
Me: He's not called [name]. He's called [other name].
Me: What's so funny?
P: He sounds like a real estate agent!
Me: Good night, Peter.
It's spring 2005. P is in the hospital for some reason I can't remember and is so sick that for the first time in years, I'm really worried he might die. He's in intensive care, unconscious, and I sit by his bed and hold his hand. The next day he's better, and we talk.
P: Thanks for holding my hand.
P: Yesterday. You held my hand.
Me: I didn't think you were awake.
P: I wasn't.
Me: But you could feel me holding your hand?
P: Yeah. It was nice.