Jacob hated bedtime. Particularly with Ethel.
Each night time was a battle—and never metaphorical.
He was fluffing his pillow when he heard it:
that smooth whoosh of cotton dying incoming.
“I assumed we agreed—no extra shock assaults!” he yelped, blocking the incoming swing.
Ethel, in her gown and curlers, growled,
“That was earlier than you stole my aspect of the mattress once more.”
Jacob huffed.
“It’s the identical aspect we’ve shared since 1972!”
Ethel raised an eyebrow.
“Precisely. I’m due a rotation.”
Feathers exploded. The lamp wobbled. The cat fled.
Jacob muttered,
“I married a sleep-deprived gladiator.”
Ethel smirked,
“And also you introduced a snore to a pillow battle.”
