I can’t help it: I laugh. She flinches again as though my laugh has the power to hurt her. Instead of cowing, though, she seems to get taller. She pushes herself off the couch and gets to her feet. Wobbly, but ferocious.
“You think I’m joking?” she demands.
“I know you’re not. That’s why it’s funny.”
Her forehead wrinkles. Before she can dream up another line of argument, I do what I suspected I’d have to do from the beginning.
She’s light as a feather as I hoist her over my shoulder. I expected her to scream, but she doesn’t even have the presence of mind to do that quite yet. Her slip flutters over my nose, perfumed with her scent.
We step into the bathroom, but instead of putting her back on her feet, I seat her on the marble countertop, then reach around her to turn the shower on
