You always make the joke. “Vixen,” you say, with that malicious smile that’s no longer new. The old man doesn’t even blink. He just raises an eyebrow and keeps tuning, his ears red with pure irritation.

If it weren’t for the fact that he’s married to you, you’d swear he would’ve smashed that guitar over your head… and with style, the way only he could. But no, he just growls, that deep growl that sometimes makes you laugh more than it scares you.

He looks at you over his glasses, his tail swaying in a slow, calculated rhythm. And you know that movement isn’t tenderness: it’s a warning.

—Oh honey, you weren't born with the grace to be funny.