I’m taking a bath with Leta, and after making sure that all her body parts are properly scrubbed I ask Jon to wash my back because, although my wingspan is almost six feet, my arms are only so bendable. He takes the washcloth, rubs between my shoulder blades, and then in a move reminiscent of a scene from a sitcom — if sitcoms were rated X — washes my chest as if waxing a car.
“That’s not my back,” I say.
“Yes it is,” he says. “It’s the part of your back called The Front.”
“Jon.”
“Heather.”
“Seriously.”
“You didn’t specify which part of your back you wanted me to wash.”
As he hoists Leta out of the tub I soak my neck and shake my head, thinking about how I had known that the move he just pulled was exactly what he would do. He notices me grinning and warns, “You are not allowed to write about this.”
“Why not?” I ask. “I can guarantee that there is more than one woman out there who would read about you doing that and nod vigorously because their men are just as predictable. At least when it comes to breasts.”
“I’m sure of that,” he says. “It’s just, do you know how awkward it is to meet someone in a professional situation now? ‘Hi, I’m Jon Armstrong, and I grope my wife while she unloads the dishwasher. BUT YOU ALREADY KNEW THAT.'”