Author: Chris Mulder
Email: mulders@mindspring.com
Rated: PG
It was the kind of day that just sucked–start to finish, all day long. The kind of day where you tell yourself: If one more bad thing happens, I’m going to kill myself. And then, one more bad thing happens and you think, Well, that must be it now, because what else could possibly happen?
Later on, you wish you hadn’t asked yourself that question.
The topper for that day was going to the dentist for my 6-month check-up. I wasn’t going to go, because I figured with the kind of day I was having, I’d probably get hit by lightning while sitting in the chair. That was until I realized I’d better get all this stuff over with because I didn’t want to have any bad karma hanging around to slip over into another day.
An hour and a half later, I slammed the front door of our apartment with despairing anger. I wanted to tell Clark all about it, but he wasn’t there–no note, so he’d probably gotten sidetracked from work, rather than from home. Damn! I needed to talk to him. I wanted to be held and sympathized with. I needed to vent, so where was the ventee?
As if on cue, I heard the soft “whoosh” of a landing and looked towards the balcony door. For a moment, as he walked through the door, I was distracted from my internal litany of disaster by the thought of how much I loved him, how proud I was of him … how nicely that flashy suit showed off his–
“Hi, Lois! I’m glad you’re home. I’ve haven’t seen much of you all day.”
Yeah, that had been part of the problem.
“I know … I hardly recognized you.”
He laughed, and hugged me. “Let’s see if we can refresh your memory a bit.” He was leaning in for a kiss, but that was too easy. If I let him kiss me, I knew I’d get distracted. After all I’d been through today, I’d earned a rant, and, by god, I was going to have one.
“I could hit you.”
“Excuse me?” He was smiling still, but his eyes were wary.
“You have perfect teeth, Clark, absolutely perfect teeth. When I think of how many times you used to use the excuse that you had to see the dentist or were just coming back from the dentist when, in actual fact, the poor man would have to go on the dole if his livelihood depended on you, and–”
“What did the dentist say, Lois?”
“Don’t use that patient tone with me, Clark Kent.” At that point I launched into my vent.
I can’t really remember now all that I vented about. The dentist thing stands out in my memory, but I think there was also a story-related rant (there usually is), and another inter-personal problem rant about one of the other reporters at the “Planet.” The rest of the day is kind of hazy now, which is probably a good thing. I do remember Clark standing there and patiently taking it all.
Eventually I got through my entire program and was back to the dentist thing. By now we were in the bedroom. Clark was on the bed–at some point he’d changed into jeans and T-shirt. I had been stalking around, going from bedroom to bathroom and back again, slamming drawers and closets, and throwing things on the floor as I changed clothes.
“And to top it all off, Dr. ‘I-love-to-drill’ Blanchard found a cavity, so now I’ll have to go back …”
“That’s too bad, Lois.”
“It’s _terrible_! You don’t know, Clark! It’s just terrible: they put some awful-tasting stuff on your gum which is supposed to numb the spot where they’re going to give you the Novocain, but it doesn’t work. And then they stick you with this _huge_ syringe and you feel like … like …! And the noise from the drill, not to mention the smell! You don’t know how bad burning tooth enamel can smell, Clark. It’s so bad that you think there should be smoke pouring out of your mouth.”
I could see him starting to grin all of a sudden.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded, hands on my hips and my head thrust forward in the classic confrontational posture. “I am talking about pain here, Clark.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but I just got this mental image of a tiny fire engine and miniature firemen …”
“I could hit you … except then I’d have a broken hand, and I’d have to go to a hand doctor … It’s not fair.” I threw my dress at him.
He caught it without half trying.
“And that’s another thing … Why do you have to have such great reflexes?”
He stood up from the bed, holding my unfortunate garment. “The better to catch flying dresses with, my dear.”
I watched him walk to the closet and hang up the dress. “It’s not fair.” I was half grumbling to myself by now–still angry at the world, but it was more of a smoldering kind of anger. The “world” wasn’t there, though, and my poor, hapless husband was bearing the brunt of my anger instead.
“And why do you have to be so strong?”
He walked over towards me. “The better to put up with you, my dear.” He smiled at me and I wanted to smile back, but I wasn’t over my day yet.
“Why can’t you get cavities, too?” I asked, in a half-pouting, half-pleading voice.
He shrugged slightly and his smile got even wider. His eyes were gleaming with suppressed laughter as he slid his hands around my waist on their way to the small of my back.
“It’s not fair,” I repeated.
He shook his head. “No,” he said softly as he kissed the tip of my nose. “It isn’t.”
“You might as well stop kissing me because I don’t like you anymore.”
“Okay.” He pulled me even closer, and started nibbling on my ear.
I had to suppress a sudden giggle. “And that won’t work either.” I pushed against his chest, but not very hard. I could feel him smiling against my neck.
“Really?” he breathed into my ear.
“Well …” I snaked my arms around his neck and moved as close to him as I could. “I can’t tell yet. It might …”
“I guess we’ll have to keep trying then, until we find something that _will_ work.” He looked down at me lovingly and all of a sudden I couldn’t remember why I’d been angry.
“Hmmm, I guess.”
He leaned in again for a kiss, and this time I allowed myself to be distracted … it seemed the least I could do.
Much later, as I was lying next to him, contentedly tracing the outline of his arm and shoulder muscles with my finger, the memory of something he’d said earlier popped into my mind, and I chucked softly.
“What are you laughing about?”
“You,” I said, as I started laughing harder. “You … and your tiny fire engines.”