It finally happened today. It was only a matter of time. We’ve been together eleven and one half years, and I’m surprised it took this long to occur, intestines being what they are.
These simple words and suddenly my wife and I are functioning on a whole new spiritual and mental plane in our blessed union:
Sorry Honey, it can’t wait. I gotta go.
Picture me, in the shower and ready to wash anti-dandruff shampoo out of my hair. Picture her, standing awkwardly, walking in place on the cold tiles to restrain herself. This is the bane of the homeowner that has only one toilet. It was bound to spring up sooner or later.
The unfortunate timing where the need for cleanliness collides with the urge to evacuate your bowels. The irresistable force meeting the immovable object. The very foundation of your relationship hangs by a thread when faced with this unique challenge.
I grunted a reluctant approval of said request, and turned away from the commode to offer her at least an illusion of privacy. But there are sounds that emanated from my wife that no lover wants to hear if he hopes to salvage a modicum of passion in the relationship. There are lockable doors on public toilets for many reasons – total and absolute seclusion from the outside world being chief among them.
The urge to turn and look at her was similar to the feeling you get when you pass a traffic accident: you don’t want to stare but you simply cannot look away. Something about the experience draws you in on a humanistic level. So I did it. I turned to her. Our eyes locked. Then my heart sunk. This was her at her most vulnerable and there was a strange beauty to that.
Do you mind?
My wife clearly did not share the same feelings as I when it came to this unusual encounter and I again turned my back to her and scrubbed my armpits.
The toilet flushed and so did a piece of our innocence.