He had actually used the fingers of each hand to mimic quotation marks and punctuate his words, a naff gesture and something he had always told me he hated seeing done.
Yet more evidence of the pressure I was putting him under.
“I’ve been hit with a lot of stuff from you lately and most of it, I have to tell you, seems like nothing more than nasty feminist bullshit you’ve cribbed from some bitter and frustrated man-hater.”
“Go on,” I urged him when he paused to take a swallow of breath, worried and volcanic all at once.
Him, that is.
“We’re married and supposed to be in love with each other. Shouldn’t that mean we sit down and talk things through if one of us isn’t happy or there’s a problem that needs to be resolved? Rather than you resorting to the Cruella De Ville Book of Marriage
