Murphy's Law

Save Your Own Skin
by Nelson

Protect me from knowing what I don't need to know.  Protect me from even knowing that there are things to know that I don't know.  Protect me from knowing that I decided not to know about the things that I decided not to know about.  Amen.  ~Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless
Lord, lord, lord.  Protect me from the consequences of the above prayer.  ~Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless
~~~~~~~~~~~


I was dreaming. In my dream, I was hunkered down beneath the covers, warm and cocooned, not ready to emerge a butterfly, or even any semblance of a weatherbeaten moth. The scent of fresh coffee struck me, and I took a deep breath, savoring the unmistakable smell, even as I felt the warmth of the steam rising up from the cup. It was thick, billowing, and covering everything in a pea-soup fog. Somewhere in the mist, I heard Keith's voice, far away, engulfed in the black hole of sleep. It grew louder and louder, repeating my name, until it sounded like it was right beside me.

I felt a subtle jarring that waved the fog away, clearing the air. I cracked an eye open and made out the form of my favorite holiday coffee mug hovering just under my nose. Mickey Mouse was staring at me from the side of the mug, dressed in a Santa suit, and standing beside a snow-covered tree. Right above Mickey was the face of my partner.

"Good morning." His eyes sparkled as he greeted me, dancing with a mirth that should be outlawed early in the morning. It's just not right, I tell you.

I opened the other eye so I could make him out better, and gave him an audible groan. "Gaaaawd!"

"You don't have to call me God."

"Jesus, what time is it?" I grumbled into my pillow.

"Just call me 'Keith'," he teased without admitting the time. "That's the greeting I get for bringing you coffee in bed?"

He didn't look the least bit offended. "Yeah, it is when you bring it early, and dressed in your Wal-Mart best."

He assessed his own attire of worn sweat clothes, and had the audacity not to be ashamed. "What's wrong with what I have on?"

"I am *not* going to Wal-Mart this close to Christmas."

He leaned down and kissed the tip of my nose. "Neither am I. What I have on is perfectly acceptable for Pajama Saturday when there's a foot of snow on the ground."

I sat up so quickly, Keith barely had time to move the coffee out of the way before it became a big brown spot on the comforter. I darted to the window and pulled back the curtains. The snow was falling so thick, it reminded me of the fog in my dream. I could barely make out the mailbox at the end of our driveway with snow drifted up about halfway to the letter holder. Grass was buried way too far beneath the carpet of snow to see daylight, if there was any light to be seen. The sky was gray and dark in contrast to the perfect white blanket covering the ground.

"Holy shit," I uttered with a smile. I straightened up from the window and tried my best to look unimpressed. "So, you said it's Pajama Saturday? I thought that was next week."

Keith grinned, and yanked me against him, running his hands down my back to get a couple handfuls of ass. "All you can think about is that we're having Pajama Saturday today?"

I frowned at him, working up the most believable expression of confusion I could muster. "What?" He raised his eyebrows at me expectantly. "Oh!" I exclaimed all of a sudden. "The snow!"

His right hand lifted from my left cheek, then popped back down on my ass leaving a satisfying sting. "Smart ass," he teased playfully.

"That hurt," I replied.

"Did not."

"Did, too."

"Did not," he finished the standoff by covering any further protests I might have with his lips pressing tightly against mine. "Who are you trying to kid? We both know how much you love the snow."

I couldn't continue the charade any longer. I beamed. I know I did; I could feel it all over my face. "I don't think I've seen this much snow in 10 years."

"I know you haven't. The news confirmed it."

I glanced out the window, this time while hanging on to Keith. "That's a shitload of snow," I commented with a grin.

"I think it's a two-ton shitload," he said. "Get dressed so we can be lazy. Or don't get dressed. Up to you."

Gotta love Pajama Saturdays. He pecked my lips before he let me go. It took two seconds to decide I wanted clothes on; it just seemed fitting when it was so cold and bleak outside. I couldn't stop grinning while I threw on the rattiest pair of sweats I owned - dark grey ones that used to have Ohio State printed on the ass in red, but the words were long ago faded away - and a light grey sweatshirt, equally worn with stains that refused to come out. Honestly, it could pass for a damn Rorschach test. I looked down at my shirt fondly and saw a giraffe - wait, no - a teapot with legs. No... a four-legged emu. Ah! Yesteryear's spaghetti sauce stain. Yes, this was living, I thought as I pulled on a thick pair of socks.

What could be better than a freaking foot of snow? I know: a foot of snow combined with Pajama Saturday. No shaving, no housework, nothing but relaxation with my partner. No chores or have-tos allowed. Those were the rules. We'd forgo a movie if it required more activity than pushing a button to open the dvd tray. I skipped down the stairs - ok, maybe I didn't skip, but "pirouetted" sounded too femme - and practically danced into the kitchen on my toes.

Keith was refilling his coffee and I slipped onto a bar stool to watch him. He set the mug on the island, and leaned toward me from the other side of the counter. "You're beautiful, you know that?"

I eyed him skeptically. I could feel my hair jutting out in all directions on the top of my head, and my day-old scruff was long enough to sprout leaves on my face. I held up two fingers in front of his eyes. "How many do you see?"

He grabbed my hand and kissed the fingertips as he counted. "One, two."

"Well, that's cheating. You counted with my fingers."

"It's not cheating unless you use your own."

His own hair didn't look so good, with one side parting as if the wind were blowing from his right, in contrast to the other side looking nearly untouched by a pillow. His 9:00 shadow - it was far too long for merely 5:00 - made him weirdly appealing, sort of how man-sweat can be a turn on when it's fresh.

"You're not so bad yourself," I told him, running the backs of my fingers over his stubbly cheek. "I'm glad sex isn't off-limits on Pajama Saturday."

"Only chores we hate are off-limits."

I raised my eyebrows. "So, no shoveling snow today, right?"

He looked instantly perplexed. "Oh."

"Right?"

"You know the homeowner association rules."

"Clear the sidewalks within four hours after the snow stops; yes, I know. But we can't break the Pajama Saturday rules, either. Not without forfeiting it as Pajama Saturday."

Keith nodded slowly. "So," he said, contemplating his coffee before looking back into my eyes, "you want to get dressed and do some housework? Postpone until our regularly scheduled time next Saturday?"

I narrowed my eyes at him, unappreciative of his bright ideas. "No. You're not funny, by the way."

He laughed softly. "Maybe we'll get lucky and it will snow all day."

"What's the weatherman saying?"

"It could snow all day." His face broke out in a smile while his blue eyes danced.

"You're a tease, you know that? We aren't going to have to shovel today, and you knew it."

He winked at me. "Probably not. It's bad out there. Most of 95 is shut down. Impassable."

"Aw, damn. You mean we can't go to Wal-Mart?"

"Not unless we take a sled."

I rolled my eyes with a dramatic flair. "I guess we can do it some other time."

~~~~~~~

We had the forethought to pick up a few movies in anticipation of the pending snowstorm. We were about halfway through an action-packed one, hunkered down beneath our favorite feather afghan - a gift from my mom a few Christmases ago. We used it all the time, even sometimes in the summer when the air conditioning was a little brisk. We were each holding onto a steaming cup of hot chocolate, when a crash - not from the TV - nearly raised me off the sofa.

"What the hell was that?" Keith said, reaching for the remote to mute the action on the screen.

"It sounded like it was out back," I said.

Keith threw off the afghan, leaving me to decide if I wanted to follow him and help investigate or stay on the sofa. Should I get up, even when I didn't need to pee or get food? The curiosity was more than I could bear, so I trailed him to the backdoor, even though it meant getting up without a good reason to.

"Oh, my God," he whispered to himself, awestruck.

"Wha--"

My question was cut off as my eyes beheld what Keith had already seen: our torn up deck canopy. We had installed a canopy over our deck a couple years back, and had enjoyed it for grilling and entertaining during the summer months under its protection from the sun. Sun was one thing; snow was clearly another. I stared with my mouth hanging open at the twisted structure, its aluminum frame bent under the strain of the heavy snow.

"That came awfully close to crashing through the window," Keith said as he pointed to a piece of the frame protruding dangerously close toward the living room window.

I silently mourned the loss of our fabulous canopy. It had made quite the difference in our outdoor meal options. Prior to installing it, we rarely sat on the deck in the summer months, but since its arrival, we spent many a weekend morning sipping coffee out there. Many a weekend grilling out there, too.

He turned a serious eye on me. "We're going to have to clear that out. The frame is barely hanging on, and if it gives way, it's going to take out that window."

I growled low in my throat. A warning growl, that Keith took absolutely no heed of. "I'm sorry, Murphy, but you can see it needs to be done."

"It's against the rules," I muttered through bared teeth.

"We forgot to mention the rules to the weather." He clapped me on the back in that good ol' boy way, that shows camaraderie and support. "Let's get to it before more damage is done."

He started toward the stairs, intent on getting right to work. I all but stomped after him, trying to control the whine that was seriously close to creeping into my voice. "Keeee-ith!"

"The quicker we get it done, the quicker we'll be back to slumming it on the sofa," he declared, unshaken and unmoved.

God bless America! And it wasn't even the 4th! "Let's just move the part that's swinging," I suggested.

He stopped on the stairs suddenly and turned to me, his face alight with an idea. "What if we do the shoveling while we're out there and have a Pajama Sunday, too?"

"Two days of lying around in our sweats?" I asked him suspiciously.

I was wary of the offer. Hell, it took more than one argument about balancing what needed to be done on the weekends and expounding on the definition of rest and relaxation before we were able to come up with a compromise: Pajama Saturday. We do it once a month, that's it. No, Pajama Sundays. No multiple Pajama Saturdays. And we were already getting two this month, which was a feat in itself, being as it was less than 10 days before Christmas, and we had as much to do as we had snow on the ground.

I looked my partner up and down. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. A compromise."

Keith was big on compromise, most of the time. There were a few lines he had drawn in the sand with indelible ink, but for the most part, we looked for middle ground.

It was a good offer: three pajama days in exchange for working a couple hours during one of them. I could handle that. Except...

"What if it snows more? We'll have to shovel again."

"It's been tapering off. I think we can manage with tossing some salt on it if we get the bulk of it moved today."

Well, fine. I stuck out my hand and he grasped it. "You have a deal."

He smiled at his success. "Great. The time will fly by," he promised.

I exchanged my comfy clothes for a pair of jeans and a few shirts: t-shirt on the bottom, button-up in the middle, and a different sweatshirt over that. I grabbed my Blackberry off the charger, and considered leaving it there, but then stuck it in the pocket of my middle layer shirt just in case.

Three layers of clothes. I should surely stay warm, no doubt about that. How warm, I was unprepared for. Do you know how much you sweat when you're moving cold, wet cement? A lot. A whole lot.

"I'm about to burn up!" I complained as I heaved another scoop of snow off the sidewalk.

"Just a few more feet," Keith said as he chunked the edge of the shovel back under the heavy wetness. "This shit is heavy. Remind me why we like the snow?"

"We don't like shoveling it." My biceps kicked in as I lifted another shovelful, and dumped it in the pile to the side of the sidewalk. "How can I be hot and have cold hands and feet?"

"It's amazing, isn't it? I think my clothes are soaked through, but I can't tell how much is from sweat and how much is from the snow."

"I think it's both," I assumed after assessing my own situation.

Our shovels finally met at the last two feet of sidewalk, and we cleared the remaining bit of snow. I rested against the handle of my shovel, and blinked away snowflakes as I looked into the gray sky. "So much for it slacking off."

"Maybe we won't get much more," Keith said hopefully.

"As long as we don't get enough to have to shovel again," I pointed out.

"Either way, it would have been much harder if it had been any deeper. It was hard enough as it was."

"Your hair is wet," I grinned as snowflakes briefly crowned the top of my lover's head before dissolving into liquid.

"So is yours," he said, running gloved fingertips over the dripping fringe on my forehead. He inclined his head toward me and pressed his frozen lips against mine. I worried for a second we might stick together, like cheapo kissing bobbleheads, but we didn't. Our heads don't bobble.

Keith pried his lips away and said, "How about a hot shower, and then some lunch?"

"Sounds good. I've worked up an appetite." My lips had a hard time forming words, paralyzed by the cold. It was like trying to walk through sludge.

My face stung when the heat in the house hit my exposed skin, and the life started to come back into my hypothermic cheeks. I didn't know that frostbite was so easy to overcome, although, I still couldn't feel my fingers and toes. I couldn't help but wonder how easily I'd adapt if I ended up an amputee before it was said and done.

"I'm frozen to the bone," I told Keith as I stared at my red fingers.

"Me, too," he said. "Sweaty and cold at the same time. We'll be lucky not to get sick."

We discarded our boots in the laundry room, and puddles immediately started to form around the soles where we dropped them. We started to peel off our drenched clothes as well, one wet layer at a time. I threw my button up shirt on the top of the washer and it clunked with a muffled thud against the metal, a sound you don't expect from a cotton shirt.

Unless something was in the pocket.

I looked at the noisy wet shirt in horror as I remembered the Blackberry in the pocket. In my soaked, drenched, far-from-dry, pocket.

"What was that?" Keith asked as he reached for the shirt.

"Nothing," I said, as I tried to jerk the shirt off the washer, but he already had it in his hands.

I held my breath as Keith reached into the pocket in slow motion. Inch by wretched inch the Blackberry appeared, until the whole of it lay in Keith's able hand. We both stared at it for a few horribly long seconds before Keith switched his gaze to me.

It still seemed that time was creeping along, in no particular hurry, so when Keith opened his mouth to speak, I expected his voice to come out all waaarped aaaand looooooooow. But it didn't.

"Your shirt is wet," he pointed out the obvious. A casual observer might have missed the connection, but anyone who knows my history with drowning, losing, maiming, dropping, cracking, running over, and otherwise harming cell phones would see the simple statement for the neon sign that it was.

It was huge, that comment; huge, and it deserved an equally enormous and profound response. I gathered my whirling thoughts, and snatched the best answer I could garner from the high winds:

"Yeah."

Sure, to you that might not sound so profound, but Keith and I both knew the acknowledgement in that little word. We knew.

He rolled his thumb over the little ball in the middle of the Blackberry, and my heart sank when the screen didn't light up in response to his caress. "Was this on when you went out?" he asked me.

I sighed and silently bobbed my head up and down. I know I said our heads don't bobble, but right then it wagged like a ceramic noggin on a spring. He punched a few more buttons, and that traitorous fucking Blackberry refused to respond.

"It was charged? All the way?" he reached for some glimmer of hope, wanting it almost as much as I did. I could hear it in his voice.

"Unfortunately," I answered quietly. I stared silently at the hateful piece of equipment that had a death wish for me. What did I ever do to the damn thing? What?! Were the Gods of All Things Cell Phone eternally pissed off at me for some reason? Shouldn't they tell me what I did wrong instead of constantly pulling a 'gotcha' on me?!

I knew what this meant, and I hated it. "Keith..."

He started shaking his head immediately. "Murphy, let's go shower and change. We'll deal with this afterward."

Great. Paddled after a shower. How fortunate for me. "Keith, it wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know it would get wet through all those clothes?"

"That isn't the point. You know what a broken Blackberry means. It's never about whether you meant for it to happen." He continued to strip off his wet clothes with an air of efficiency, the mode he always goes into when he's ready to dole out consequences. "Get your jeans off," directed Efficient Keith with a short nod toward the only clothes left on my person, save underwear and tee.

Like everything else, Blackberry included, the jeans were soaked, too. There's nothing much more blech than wearing wet jeans, so I complied, although my mind was elsewhere. Something about pulling them off made me acutely aware that this was about as comfortable as my butt was going to feel for the rest of the day. I felt like I could puke when Keith took my elbow and directed me toward the stairs as we headed through the house in our t-shirts and briefs.

What was supposed to be a great day had quickly turned dark and foreboding, just like the fucking sky outside. The cell phone gods were frowning down upon me, and I was frowning right back at them. Glaring, even.

"This day sucks," I grumbled as Keith turned the shower on. I half-heartedly threw my underwear toward the hamper, and they caught on the lip of the thing, hanging on precariously for dear life.

Keith rescued them when he walked his underwear and t-shirt to the hamper. "Come on," he said on the way back, taking my hand. He opened the shower door and invited me in first. "Let's warm up before we catch pneumonia."

We took a functional shower, no fun involved at all, since both of us were thinking about afterward. I know I was. I couldn't believe it! There was a part of me that felt like I deserved whatever Keith meted out: anyone so stupid deserved it! How many cell phones and Blackberries had to die before I quit killing them?!

As I neared the end of my shower, I tried not to think about it. I was engulfed in that fog again. Maybe it was a dream? Maybe my Blackberry was still alive and well, and hadn't gone to heaven with our canopy?

The feeling had come back to my fingers and toes, and I had washed everything I could think of. Twice. I would have kept on washing, but with Keith in the shower with me, I couldn't drag it out.

With a hand on the shower nozzle, he asked simply, "Done?"

I tried to breathe, but it was difficult, so I just nodded. Bobbled. The water shut off immediately, and Keith stepped out first, letting me stay in the warm cubby until he could toss me a towel. He mopped the water off his body, and was working on his hair when he said, "I'll grab our clothes."

He returned redressed in his Wal-Mart best but carrying only my socks and sweatshirt - my favorite sweatpants were glaringly missing from the ensemble as well as any underwear. Oh, but he didn't forget the paddle, God bless his pea-picking heart.

"Let's get on with this so we can put it behind us."

Behind *me*, was more like it, I thought as I pulled my sweatshirt back on. I felt painfully more naked in just a shirt and socks, knowing why the rest of my clothes were missing. My skin prickled from the cool air touching me, and goosebumps broke out on my bare skin.

I shuddered, but not from being chilled, then I had a thought. "Keith. What if it was only cold?"

He put his hands on his hips as he stared at me solemnly. "Do you really think so?"

No, but it was me and my ass on the line, and the two of us thought it was worth a try. "Probably not, but I'd like to try it before..." I looked toward the paddle lying on the counter. "You know."

After all these years, I still don't like to say it. He knew what I meant. He gave me a short nod. "I'll go try one more time."

I paced in the bathroom, uttering a mantra of "please, please, please, let it work, please, please, please..." to the very gods who hated me and the Blackberry I rode in on. If it wasn't snowing cats and dogs and mice and rabbits, I'd be watching out for lightning. It was obliged to strike at any time, weather permitting.

The Blackberry might work, I tried to reassure myself. Electronics don't care for cold much more than they care for water, right? Right?! Could the gods be appeased with anything short of an ass sacrifice?

I stopped walking a hole in the tile when I heard Keith coming. I watched expectantly as he appeared in the doorway, but I knew the answer by the look on his face. "I'm sorry, Murphy. It's gone."

I waited for him to make the sign of the cross over his chest, and when he didn't - he isn't Catholic - I scrambled for hope once more. Please, please, please... "Are you sure?"

"Yes." And just like that, he was back in Efficient Keith-mode. "Let's do it in the bedroom while we're already upstairs."

He grabbed my wrist - efficiently - and I pulled against him a little, dragging my feet for obvious reasons. I hated to be paddled. It rarely happened, but it was always a given when something went awry with the cell phone.

I was keenly aware of being pantless, as he hauled me into the bedroom. Maybe it was because of the paddle he lugged along in his other hand that raised my awareness to such heights. "Keith, please. It was an accident."

He sat on the bed and pulled me across his lap immediately (efficiently?), and I instinctively groped for balance as I came nose-close to the carpet. "It is always an accident," he said truthfully.

The sting of the first stroke of the paddle stole my breath, and the second came quickly on the heels of the first. My eyes began to leak almost immediately, as my butt began to burn. I was convinced in short order that Blackberry phones were of the Devil and that I was summarily being sent to hell - ass first - for being associated with one.

Thankfully, death by paddle is quicker than death by spanking, so it was over about the time I thought my raw behind couldn't take another single swat. I jumped up and immediately clutched at my ass, trying to rub out the fire, only to find to my shock (why was I shocked! I'd been here before!) and horror I was making it worse. Like tossing gasoline on an open flame. That tidbit of information was obviously filed away in my brain with the notes on Blackberry care and handling. I switched tactics right away, and pampered my scorched cheeks with more gentle touches from the palms of my hands.

I was sniveling and hiccuping for air, more interested in breathing and soothing my backside than anything else at that moment. If those priorities hadn't been there, I might have felt the need to salvage some fragment of dignity, as if that were even possible wearing nothing but a red ass, a sweatshirt and a pair of socks.

Keith stood up and pulled me against his shoulder, whispering comforting somethings-or-other in my ear.

I stomped one socked foot as I got angry with myself all over again. "How could I be so stupid!" I blubbered into his shoulder. "I don't know why I even took it outside with me!"

"The last thing you are is stupid," I heard him say. "Just a little clumsy with the Blackberry. You're usually more careful for a while after you've maimed one, though."

I wonder why???? "But it hasn't been that long ago that I dropped it down the steps and cracked the screen."

He gave a short chuckle. "You're right. About what? Four months?"

"Something like that."

"Hopefully, it will dry out and work ok," he said.

I pulled away from him and rubbed my eyes. I couldn't help but notice Keith had his own Rorschach test on his shoulder where I had been bawling. This one looked like the Devil to me. And he was laughing. Hard.

I tore my eyes away. "When I dunked the Blackberry in the pool, later someone told me a trick I could have tried, but didn't know about it at the time. Rice."

"Rice?" he asked me quizzically. He didn't even seem to notice the Devil laughing on his shoulder, although inches away from his ear. It was having a hee-haw, knee-slapping good laugh, too.

I ignored the son of a bitch, and focused on Keith. "Yeah, put it in a bowl of rice and it's supposed to absorb moisture."

"Hmm," he said curiously with a slow nod of his head. "Like some restaurants do with salt shakers. Why don't you get yourself together, and put your pants on, then we'll go downstairs and try it?"

Pants. On? What a painful idea. "Ok," I said without argument. Funny how compliant I became after being consequenced. It's an amazingly strong tool in the area of persuasion.

I went into the bathroom to blow my nose, and splash some water on my face, and I couldn't resist the urge to turn-tail to the mirror to check the damage - I rarely can. As with other times, I was surprised it didn't look as bad as it felt. I expected to see tendrils of smoke ribboning off the charred remnants of my bee-hind, but it was just red. Nothing nearly like the well-done briquette I expected to see.

I went back to the bedroom where Keith patiently waited for me to finish pulling myself together, and I gingerly slipped on my sweatpants, no underwear required. I followed Keith downstairs and couldn't help but notice the snow still pouring from the dingy, dark clouds. Keith noticed, too.

"I hope it slows down enough that we don't have to shovel again," Keith said as we passed the large picture window adorning our stairwell.

"I can put my ass on it, and melt the whole damn yard," I half-heartedly bellyached. Being a smart ass comes naturally to me on a good day, and it's even easier when my pride is wounded. My pride stung about as bad as my backside, and always did after being punished.

I saw Keith grin at the wry comment out of the corner of my eye but he declined to reply. We got to the kitchen, and Keith went straight to the pantry, quickly locating the box of rice, which was where it should be: beside the pasta.

Finding a suitable bowl proved a more difficult feat, but Keith fished under the cabinet until he caught a piece of Tupperware that could handle the job. "This should do it," he announced with a proud flourish, plopping the bowl on the counter. "And now for my next trick," he said, depositing the Blackberry in the bowl, "I'm going to make this Blackberry work again."

I declined to sit for the show. My butt would never forgive me this soon after being licked by the fiery flames of Hades. It was sweet that Keith was trying so hard to make me feel better after he, himself, was the one who left my butt so seriously uncomfortable. It was still sweet; I couldn't deny that.

"There," Keith announced after covering the phone in rice, and snapping on the lid. "How long does it take to work?"

"I don't know. We can try it tomorrow, I guess, not that it matters now."

Despite Keith's best efforts, I grew increasingly melancholy with each passing second over the way the day had turned out. It was a crappy day. Death all around me, and so close to the holidays. First our canopy (God rest its soul), then my Blackberry (God rest its soul), and then my ass (God rest its soul). Maybe it would get better. Didn't deaths come in threes?

Keith instinctively read my mood, and offered a solution without calling it one. "I have an idea--"

"Your last idea ended with me getting in trouble," I muttered under my breath disconsolately.

He blithely ignored the accusation as if I hadn't even uttered it. "Why don't I make some potato soup for lunch?"

One of my favorites. I love it on a cold or rainy day, whether that rain happened to be in the form of solid precipitation or not. Keith knew it, and it warmed me inside just a bit that he would suggest it.

"Do *you* want potato soup?" I demurely inquired. I didn't want to look too anxious. He had paddled me after all, and I felt the need to wallow in my sorrow a little more. It was uncouth to shed one's robes of mourning too soon. What would people say? They would be aghast.

Keith said, "I do, and I know it's your favorite on a day like today."

"We don't usually cook on Pajama Saturday," I wallowed some more. The slop was about to my knees, but I was yet unappeased.

Hmph. I made a rhyme.

He pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and he pulled out a few potatoes, laying them on the counter. "We don't usually have to shovel snow, either," he pointed out. He started scrubbing the potatoes under the tap. "Sit there, and watch the master at work."

"I'd rather stand," I replied glumly. He winked at me but didn't apologize for what he had done. I don't think he was sorry at all. "You broke the rules doing that to me on Pajama Saturday. No unpleasant chores."

I had tried during Pajama Saturday negotiations to include a "no consequences" clause, but I lost that battle.

Keith had said, "If you put forth enough effort on Pajama Saturday to need consequences, I'll have no choice but to comply."

And that was the end of that.

He shook the water off the last potato and laid it on a paper towel. "It was my responsibility, not a chore."

"There's a difference?" He gave me one of those looks, and I sighed. "You could have at least waited long enough for my ass to dry better."

It was worse than it should have been on a damp ass, not that it wouldn't have been bad on a fully dry one. My butt was still hotly throbbing, a constant reminder of what just happened. It was terribly distracting.

"I'm sorry," he smiled, thoroughly unapologetically, despite his word choice. "Look at it this way: it's over now. I'm going to make this soup, then we'll be officially back to doing nothing."

~~~~~~

By the time Christmas morning arrived, I had all but forgotten the latest Blackberry caper. The fucker had started working by the next day, thanks to the rice. No prayer was involved. It was too late to save my ass, so why should I care if the Blackberry lived or died? I had had it with the damn thing. The gods were mad at me anyway.

I had tried in the past to work out a 24-hour hold on any cell phone damage consequences, as more than once, it worked after such a time.

"No," Keith had said.

"What? Just 'no'?"

"No," he said again. He didn't even look up from the newspaper he was reading.

I had done my best to look menacing, placing my hands on my hips, and furrowing my brow. He didn't seem to notice. Hard to while keeping one's eyes on the paper. "Why not?"

He finally looked up. "How many times do I need to tell you that it's about being careless?"

Apparently, more than once.

By Christmas morning, there weren't many traces of the snowstorm left to give a clue of the magnitude of it all. There were patches where you'd expect them: in shaded areas, and wherever it had been piled high by snow plows and the like. I thought we would never see our mailbox again after the plows came through and covered what little of it remained visible. News of the storm and the damage left in its wake was all over the news for days. Somehow, the commentators failed to count my Blackberry or my tortured ass in the casualties.

"There," Keith said as the gas logs burst into flame. "Now, we have our coffee, quiche, and a fire. Time for presents."

I smiled at him, watching him rub his hands together like a little boy eager to see what Santa brought. He was looking mighty sexy in his navy Ralph Lauren sweater, and dark brown dress slacks that stretched just right as he bent under the tree for presents. I breathed in the scent of him when he sat next to me on the sofa: today was Burberry Brit for men, and I drank in the combined woody and citrus aroma that smelled better to me than homemade quiche.

Keith's blue eyes twinkled as he placed a smallish box, wrapped in silver and blue stripes, in my hands. "Me, first?"

"I've been dying to give you this."

"We usually do stockings first." I glanced toward the fireplace at the stockings, pregnant with goodies from each of us to the other.

"Come on, Murph," he begged. "Indulge me."

I smiled broadly, my own little boy inside wriggling his way out, anxious to see what was in the package. I tore the shiny paper off, casting it and the ribbon onto the coffee table. I deflated when I saw what it was.

"That's mean, Keith," I said without reservation, as I looked at the metal cell phone skin. It hadn't been enough time gone by since I was consequenced to feel like joking about it. I picked up the shiny aluminum shell, and turned it over in my hand. "It won't even fit the Blackberry."

"No, it won't." Keith produced another box from behind his back in matching blue and silver stripes. "But I was assured it fits this."

I stared at him, disbelievingly, after having seen the little Apple symbol on the box for the cell phone skin. "Seriously? You didn't..."

He lifted a shoulder indifferently, and smiled. "Maybe."

"No, way," I uttered breathlessly as I ripped paper from the box. And there it was in all its glory. I stared at it as though it was the holy star of Bethlehem, brilliant and shiny. I couldn't believe it. "Wow. An iPhone," I managed to say in awe.

"You like it?" he asked me expectantly.

I was speechless. Well, almost. "You know I do!" I flung my arms around his neck, and kissed him fiercely. "I can't believe you got me one after the other week."

"I didn't."

My brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand..."

"I bought it before the latest Blackberry fiasco, and was about to die to give it to you after that. I bought armor for it."

I picked up the aluminum shell and grinned. "The skin."

"It isn't waterproof, but it's just about anything else-proof. I was hoping it would save you anymore cell phone-related trouble, but you managed to squeeze another one in there before the fat man came."

His laugh was so jolly, it was damn near a ho, ho, ho. But I didn't. I didn't laugh at all. I glared at him flatly. "Have I told you, you aren't funny? Have I?"

"Once or twice." Instead of becoming repentant, he laughed harder. "I'm sorry," he said, without remorse.

"If you don't quit, I'm throwing your stocking in the fire."

He locked his arm around my neck and pulled me close. "Merry Christmas, Murph. I love you."

It was an innocent gesture, but seconds later, it turned passionate. I recognized that look in his eye, even before he probed my mouth hungrily with his tongue to prove how much he loved me. He did it so well, he had my dick stirring in no time: creatures and mice be damned.

I gathered myself, and took a breath. "If you don't slow down, you aren't going to get to open your presents for a little while."

He pried my new iPhone from my hands, and manhandled me back against the sofa cushions. I love when he does stuff like that. He couldn't be any sexier unless he threw me over his shoulder and carried a club.

His hand immediately groped for my fly, as he ardently proclaimed in a thick voice, "This is the only package I'm interested in right now."

"But I forgot to wrap it," I teased.

"I'll close my eyes," he promised.

And I did the same, as the fog from a few weeks ago, enveloped me again. I lost myself as he worked below my waist to tear open shutters, throw up sashes, and yada yada with his teeth. Not really, but it was close, and fits with the Christmas spirit.

In keeping with that theme, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

(Use your imaginations. The rest is for private viewing only.)

End