Chapter 2: Residence

The original intention, or plan as told to me, was to spend our wedding night in my old house, a conveniently private, remote and empty dwelling. Sometime the following day, we were expected to walk back to Ruthie’s house, about two miles distant, and rejoin the family. We haven’t yet.

My sister Ellie walks over every morning, to collect eggs, feed the chickens, and deliver a basket with the leftovers from the previous nights family supper. She places six of the gathered eggs in the basket for our use. All the other stock has already been merged with Ruthie’s at her farm.

If it weren’t for discontinuing the food baskets delivery, I would offer to tend the chickens myself, and spare Ellie the walks. Selfish of me to want to remain here, dallying with my wife, shirking my chores, and relying upon baskets of meal remnants to be hand delivered by my long suffering kid sister. Upon the advice of my wife, I refrain from disturbing the status quo.

According to Ruthie, I still have much to learn about pleasing a woman. She has my complete attention. Who would imagine women had such complicated anatomies? The specific attentions Ruthie enjoys are too numerous to mention.

For example. Did you know there are right ways and wrong ways to nibble a feminine earlobe? Amazing creature, my wife, and I haven’t even seen all of her yet. My hands and fingers have explored beneath her nightdress, but she hasn’t completely removed it in my presence. When we make love, by far the most mysterious and wonderful experience of my life, it’s always under covers, and our clothing barely hiked up the minimum to allow the connection. Ruthie cautions me to be patient. Isn’t five days patient enough? All in good time, she promises.

“Will you ever run out of sweet things to say to me?”

Ruthie expresses her insecurity. She wants and expects me to reassure her. How do I reassure her of a lifetime commitment, in less than a lifetime? More curious than her body, is my wife’s mind. It’s workings are incomprehensible to me. She seems to prefer taking the most innocent utterance in the worst possible way of interpretation.

Example, I was massaging her feet, something she loves me to do, and she has very pretty feet, so I like to rub them. I began playing, this little piggy went to market, this lil piggy stayed home, with her toes, and she began sobbing and weeping.

“What’s the matter, sweet Ruthie? Did I hurt you?”

“You think I’m fat.”

When a woman tells you what you’re thinking, you are trapped in a circular argument that has no exit. No amount of protestation will avail, she KNOWS what you think, even though it never crossed your mind until she brought it up. The only thing to do, is confess and beg forgiveness. If you can make the confession complimentary, or seductive, it helps. Both together are charm.