The shrew had the cheek to ask me today, "how come you never hug me anymore, sir?". I looked her dead in the eye and said, "what do I look like, some sort of fag?".
Hugs, flowers and empty promises died when our courtship ended, like rats on a doomed ship. Once I paid her father his asking price (that rheumy eyed old price-gouger!), and I had the marriage contract locked up safely in the vault, it was down to brass tacks.
In my heart, though, I feel that any given moment that I'm not laying into her with the knout is a tender moment. It is the same as my saying, "you're doing a fantastic job, honey! I love you!".
Why can't the stupid woman get that through her thick skull? I guess I'll have to put a finer point on it the next time I'm forced to correct her.