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Back Porch
19
Fudge Frenzy
by Kathleen Moore Joiner
Our hands met unexpectedly in mid-air, and the effect was electrifying. Glancing up from our newspapers simultaneously, each tried to plumb the depths of the other’s gaze. Our fingers still hovered above the plate like hummingbirds frozen in flight. I broke the silence first.
“What’s that on the wall just behind your head?”
My husband snickered, his hand not moving. “You don’t really think I’m going to fall for that one, do you?” he asked, his smile not reaching his eyes.
I blinked, wide-eyed. “I don’t know what you mean,” I replied in injured tones. “I was just afraid it might be a bug, and I didn’t want it to crawl on you.”
His fingers dropped to the plate, so mine did, too. Now we each held opposite ends of pure, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate ecstasy, the kind of experience for which sonnets were penned and wars were fought. I wasn’t about to let go; neither was he. I could have sworn I heard the theme muse from that shark movie.
'You’ve had at least six pieces already,” Mike pointed out.
That’s what I get for marrying an accountant. So he thought he was going to reason with me, did he? Everyone knows I am impervious to reason when it comes to fudge— especially the last piece of fudge. I sat up straight and looked him square in the eye. I hold a black belt in verbal warfare.
“So what?” My first assault was a definite miss.
He tried again. “Don’t you know it’s going to go straight to your thighs? You’ll be wanting to get into your swimsuit before long.”
I sucked in my breath; that remark was below the belt in more ways than one. My chin went up several notches. “So what?” I retorted again. This wasn’t exactly dazzling him with lightning-fast wit. I was going to have to think of something more creative to say; I sounded too much like our five-year-old, Robert.
‘You promised to love me for better or worse,” I reminded Mike. “I was there, remember? I heard you. That meant through thick or thin, thighs, too.”
He rolled his eyes. “That had nothing to do with this and you know it. The word ‘thighs’ was never mentioned in our wedding ceremony. Besides,” he gazed at me tenderly. “I’m just looking out for your health.”
“Hah!” I couldn’t help laughing aloud at that. “My health, indeed. And what about your thighs?”
He gave me a withering look. “Everyone knows men don’t gain weight in their thighs. That’s a female condition. Men get potbellies.” He stopped, looking startled. That was a major fumble on his part, and we both knew it. I actually saw him suck in his gut. I lunged in for the kill.
‘You’re quite right, my dear.” I smiled sweetly. “Is that where you’re putting the eight pieces you’ve eaten?” He had the grace to look guilty. I admire that in a man.
“It’s not going to kill you to let me have the last piece,” he whined.
I let my chin quiver, just a little. Men have never been able to resist teary women. “Remember that time I was sick with a cold, and I got out of bed and made soup because you were sick, too? I ignored how badly I felt to do something nice for you. I’m
only asking for one teeny little piece of fudge.” I leaned forward, pinning him to the chair with my eyes. ‘You owe me.”
‘You ate half that soup,” he said, his voice as frosty as the windshield of my car on an October morning. “Look,” he suddenly changed tactics, “Why don’t we do this the civilized way and just split it?” Despite his air of calm logic, it was obvious he was seeking a compromise to save his male ego. I smelled victory.
‘To quote a famous male line, darling spouse, ‘if you love me, you’ll let me’.”
Mike’s grin was instantaneous. I didn’t like that look. “If you’ll ‘let’ me,” he leered, “you can have all the fudge you can eat.”
That was the last tack I wanted this conversation to take. I glared and finally blurted, ‘Tf you don’t get your cotton pickin’ hands off that last piece of fudge, I’m... I’m never going to cook again.”
“Ooooh, Baby!” Mike laughed, not the least bit dismayed or intimidated. “1 love it when you talk tough.”
This was not going well at all. “Look,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “you’ve had more fudge than I have, and...” I stopped abruptly, staring in fascinated horror as he raised the knife. What was he going to do? Surely he wouldn’t murder his wife over a measly jiiece of candy? What was it like to die? Wlio would take care of Robert after his father went to prison? Was it too late to give him the fudge?
I envisioned shark’s teeth and heard that ominous muac again as the gleaming blade flashed downward before my eyes and sliced neatly into the moist chocolate between our