Tuesday, December 20, 2011

You're not doing what I think you're doing, are you?

Wine is flowing freely, the lights are soft, the sun is setting, laughter and conversation swim around us.
My beloved and I are sitting holding hands under the table and enjoying being just us. There is no little Master Mayhem attempting to climb on the table and upturn the vases and no little Miss Mischief trying to upend my bag and make off with all the most important cards and of course the phone - no wait, she's already got that and put it 'somewhere'. Right.
So we're staring into each others eyes and playing thumbsies and then... my beloved's hand starts creeping higher.
For a second I am stunned. Unable to believe it. I thought we had put all this behind us. 
Seriously. 
"You're not doing what I think you're doing are you?" I demand incredulously.
"What, no, of course not," he says, trying, and failing, to look innocent. 
"You are! You so are. Hon, it's a wedding!"
Giggling, I adjust my dress, trying to hide the bathers which I've put on instead of a bra, as, being majorly disorganised I didn't get around to getting a strapless one and figured blue bather straps would be less obvious than black or now-greyish. My cleavage has grown throughout the evening as roughly half a gallon of milk has filled it. I obviously had not been giving my voracious little milker (aka the Poppet) enough credit in her milking skills.
"You didn't mind before," my beloved protests. 
"That was before! And not at a wedding." 
"What's wrong with doing it at a wedding?" 
I groan and roll my eyes. 
"You were Feeling. My. Pulse. You have med-student-itis. Maybe next year you can start all that again. But the exams are over hon." 








Tell me truthfully - is the swimsuit too obvious? 

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