It was Sunday evening.
Partner was standing over the bathroom toilet, urinating.
The bathroom door was open.
I was in bed.
He thought I was still napping.
With his back to the door, my devil appeared on my right shoulder. In case you are wondering, my shoulder devil always takes the form of Partner’s cat, Elvis, except with a broken left antler, a split tongue, and hooves for paws (i.e. how I always see it). Shoulder Devil Elvis explained how easy it would be to slowly sneak out of bed, tip-toe behind Partner, and yell something like, “Your mother sucks socks in Hell.” Of course I could scream “interstate jelly crackers” or “testicle pong” and be gifted the same glorious results I imagined in my head.
I smile, thinking how hilarious this would be. Would Partner scream like a girl? Would pee spray the bathroom walls as if jetting from an out-of-control fire hose? Would pee get on me? What if he farted? Would he be able to look me in the eyes anymore if he crapped himself? All of these questions begged for answers instead of speculation.
As I stifled uncontrollable giggles while imagining how startled my typically stoic partner would look when I suddenly pop behind him and scream something like, “booger pants” (still undecided) as he relieved himself, Blind Murphy Angel appeared on my other shoulder. Blind Murphy Angel reminded me of the many times Partner expressed how much he hates being startled. Seriously. Hates it.