Cupid

It had been a typical long day at work. My wife was still at her job and wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours.

I’d run the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen a smidge, decided I didn’t want to even attempt to clean up the Wii Rockband accessories littering the family room (the ones two teenage girls were able to get out and set up but were somehow entirely unable to take down and put away), and had started making dinner for myself and my wife. I set Michael’s dinner before him (organic chicken nuggets with tater tots and plenty of ketchup) and then plopped myself down in my own spot at the table to keep him company, and maybe even get in a couple of rounds of Solitaire on my iPhone.

With my head aimed down and squarely at the small screen, from the corner of my eye, I see Michael look over and point two index fingers at me, thumbs skyward.

“Pew! Pew! Pew! Pew!” he zapped me, fingers alternately bouncing backwards in mock explosive recoil.

Somewhat annoyed but mostly wounded that he would decide that the best thing to do with me is to riddle me with imaginary gunfire, I turned toward him.

“Michael, why on earth are you shooting me?”

“I’m shooting you with love,” he said, without missing a beat.

“Alrighty then,” I said.

I guess if you’re going to get shot with something, love is probably the best projectile.