How I adore the moment a woman reaches into her Pandora's Box of Memories and drags out something from sixty-six years ago.
You know what I mean. Chicks have a place they keep statements made by men; off-hand remarks or drunken pronouncements that are taken completely out of context as stand-alone icons of the relationship. In moments of male vulnerability they can be brought out and fired back at the hapless man like rocket-launched grenades.
An example:
After a long business lunch, followed by a number of cleansing ales at the pub, a mate went home to his bride. He wanted to show her the size of his ardour, but she demurred, disapproving of his beery state.
Had he been home when he said he would, the missus said, she would have been happy to give him the best BJ of his life. To which he replied:
Don't flatter yourself.
If you think that was forgotten as a dumb drunk doozy, you'd be wrong. Wifey embarrassed husband in company for years with that gem.
My suspicion is that women secretly cherish these nuggets of vindictive gold. In quiet moments, they take the memories out of the box and polish them, lovingly rubbing until they glow like fine antique silverware.
Silver bullets. Silver bullets to be shot when least expected.
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