Bending over to watch your food slowly turn in the heat of the microwave, you rest your chin atop your arms as you cross them on the counter, your hips pushed out mindlessly. The buzz of the microwave drowns out the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Gentle footsteps approach you in the kitchen and before you can stand up straight, you feel a sharp smack across your rear before two soft hands settle on your hips. "Ay, mi amor. Are you bent over for the food or for me?"