(Copyright 1993) Belt-test at the dojo, you as tester.(Copyright 1993) Belt-test at the dojo, you as tester. You come home around ten, flushed, sore, and exhausted. You sag into a soft chair, your equipment bag still dangling from your fingers. I remove it from your hand and ask, "How was it?" "They were all very big and very good," you mutter under your breath, "and seemingly tireless." "Hungry?" You shake your head. "A glass of water would be great, though." You gingerly untie your shoelaces and remove your shoes and socks. I go into the kitchen and return with the water. "From the tap," I say. "Not too cold; don't want your stomach to cramp, dearest." "Thanks for thinking of me," you say, smiling at me. I sit on the arm of the chair and kiss your sweaty forehead. "I bet I taste like a salt-lick," you grouse. "If I smeared you with butter, I'd take you out to the movies and eat you while I watched Arnold Schwarzenegger," I reply, grinning. "Nah; it'd have to be a Chow Yun-Fat flick for me to really enjoy it," you reply, chuckling a little. "I got a surprise for you," I say, kneading and massaging your knotted shoulder muscles under my fingers. "A piping hot bubble bath awaits you in back." "Ooh, that sounds wonderful," you say, wincing under my ministrations. "Is is real hot?" "Real hot." I stand and pull you to your feet. "Go soak. I'll be in there in a bit with more water. Or would you like iced tea?" "Make it a Shiner Bock." You shuck your uniform top and wipe your sweaty chest with it. "I'm goin' to soak." I go back into the kitchen and tidy up, rummaging around the silverware drawer to find the bottle opener. I crack open a beer and take it into the back. You're splayed out in the bathtub when I enter, head the only thing visible above the soapy froth. |