Against All Odds
“I will never not love that little drum solo,” I sighed, leaning against my husband’s shoulder and closing my eyes.
“His songs all sound the same, you know,” he replied, switching his bottle of Busch Light to the hand and arm that I wasn’t resting against.
“What?” I said, blinking a bit out of my dreamy Pinot Grigio-induced peace.He looked down at me, grinned, and placed a firm kiss on the top of my head.
“Phil Collins. Is the worst singer of all time. His songs are all the same,” he said slowly and with emphasis.
I inhaled sharply and pulled back to look him full in the face.
“Are you trying to start a fight?” I demanded, gripping my wine glass.
He shrugged. “I’m just telling the truth.”
I glared at him, eyebrow cocked in disbelief as I lifted my glass to my lips. There was only one swallow left and I downed it quickly. Standing up, I set the glass on the table nearby and made my way back over to him. My expression had not changed. And I saw the blatant mischief in his eyes at my approach.
“Take it back,” I demanded quietly.
“Convince me he’s not terrible,” he said, as just quietly.
I grinned my very best smile just before I pulled my t-shirt off and tossed it into his face.