Last night she made an awful fuss about nothing, and we went to bed without a proper goodnight. This morning I gave her many a good slap while we were making love. Many a good slap, indeed. My first experience of the kind, I haste to add. The funny thing is not that I enjoyed it in a way, but that she appeared to enjoy it, too. She accepted it gladly, to say the least. Still, I hope that I will slap her never again, no matter what.

Addendum (September 17, 2010)

Many a good slap later, I cannot but feel a tad guilty about my troglodyte ways. For better or worse, it is her unyielding habit of making an awful fuss about nothing. What is even worse, she fusses most when we appear to be most in love. So many years later, it is safe to say that this is a firm rule with her. Nay, a veritable law. More love, more fuss. The next time we make love, I revert to slapping her over and over again. Lovingly, but resolutely. And she never complains. Never ever. She seems to accept the symbolic punishment as her just reward. Which confuses me ever anew. Why the awful fuss, in the first place? Why so much misery when everything seems to be just right? Returning to my own ways, why do I feel even a tad guilty when love is squandered so glaringly for no reason whatsoever?