April 8, 2016 By @Kinyua
For the major part of that afternoon, we stayed without talking to each other for quite a long time. Silent treatment, silent mistreatment, it depends on how you want to look at it. The issue was quite simple, I wanted her to cook fish instead of chicken, which according to her was her best treat, especially considering the fact that we hadn’t seen each other for about a month now, and apparently that warranted a special treat. In fact, she had promised to have it even more, what was the word, piquant, yes, that word, than the last that she had prepared for me. (She can cook by the way. I mean, she, can, cook.) I still stuck to my guns though, I wanted fish instead. This as expected had cast us into a state of spousal hate, that hate that is often intertwined with so much love, that even a simple guttural throat clearance was met with dagger eyes.
So we sat, music played through the speakers. She was reading her novel, which I had wittily noticed hardly ever got the pages flipped. I sat next to her, on my leather theatre recliner that I loved to call My Throne. I held a cold beer in my hand, with a device on my other that flipped through the playlist at my will. I would peek at her quite intermittently, just to stare at her soft skin. At this one moment she almost got me staring, as she banged her book on the table and said quite harshly, “You know what dude? We are taking this one to the game!”
Now, get me right. I instantly got mixed feelings. One, I was mad. Mad crazy. Dude? Who even calls their knight in shining armor dude? Two, a modicum of bliss quite overshadowed the pique. Finally a word had been uttered in this room after almost an entire eternity, and taking it to the game? Who wouldn’t love taking it to the game?
“Fine by me!” I said, “Let’s play,” I added, as I walked towards the TV wall, I switched on the console, and took both pads. I handed her one of them, and couldn’t help but notice her sly grin. A few more logistics and we were set. It was now team management time. I chose to play Giroud as a number 9, Walcott and Sanchez on both wings. My midfield was Carzola and Wilshere, Ozil sitting in front at 10. The defence felt impenetrable with Koss and Per at the middle, and Debuchy and Monreal at the flanks. This of course created a little problem, as I was not expected to be fielding a player who had since left the club. I joked, as I looked at her line up, that she should as well take off Rooney and play Marcus Rashford who is currently enjoying the form of his life. That seemed to settle it, and the game was on!
The playlist conveniently chose Show Me What You Got by Jay Z, as we both went close to drawing first blood. I almost was showed what she got, after a superb free kick almost dipped into the top corner, only for Cech to assist in keeping matters in check. I have to swear at this point that I felt my man-card threatened. This lady was equally good when it came to doing this; almost as good as she was in her cooking as well as in other areas that I shall not mention here, as I do not wish to embed any thoughts on an innocent reader. Most of the guys I know would easily get constantly annihilated against her as an opponent, that I can tell you for free. I have to confess, that I have had myself whooped by her in the past. Only once though. This was enough, however, to want to never get whooped by her ever again, as it was used consistently to have matters go against my way. Even mere phone calls would end with, “I love you babe even though I beat you at FIFA last month…” Terrible scenes my brothers.
I was trailing 1-0 by the 45th minute; Rooney had dribbled through my entire defence before finessing to the right of the post. Both the virtual players as well as the human o
ne had celebrated the goal. She jumped on her seat, shouted for a clear two minutes, and watched the replay repeatedly. I was in pain, real pain, especially after she said, “You know I love being on top, don’t you babe?”
I took emotions into the second half, made two tactical changes that gave me two quick goals. I of course savored the moment as well, taking time to analyse the goals by watching the replays until I could feel my manhood grow back. I had this one in my pocket, and it was nearing the final whistle when I heard the doorbell ring. She stared at me, after pausing the game, so I had no option but to go and check whether it was the plumber. I asked him to come in, and took him to the washrooms and identified what exactly I wanted repaired. He got busy quite immediately, and so I walked back to My Throne to finish matters. It was then that the shock hit me like a heart attack, as I watched the Manchester United scums celebrating on my beloved Bravia.
“What the deuce!” But before I could rant any more, she placed a finger on my lips, “Sssh,” she said, before placing a kiss on my lips. “I don’t know what happened! It beats me too…” Then laughter, evil but warm, and as always, refreshing. “Now, would you like me to make you some chicken?” That sly smile, as she strutted into the kitchen.