Turns out I was wrong on a number of fronts.
Firstly, Tracey says she found the nappy virtually as I was walking out the door to work.
"I can smell," she explained to me. "It was either a nappy or something dead."
Secondly, she isn't laughing.
However, she is smiling. Unfortunately these nasty little smiles don't reach all the way to her eyes and tend to come as she's giving me things. Like dinner.
"Here you go," she said to me tonight as she handed me my bowl of Stroganoff. Then she stood smiling down on me, watching my spoon as I brought it to my lips.
My hand froze a couple of inches from my mouth. I looked closely at my spoonful of food.
"What have you done to it?" I asked her. I felt a bit like filling a little nappy of my own.
"Nothing," she said airily, the thin smile still in place. I brought the spoon another half inch closer to my mouth. "Probably nothing."
My wife could write a text book on psychological warfare. My book, on the other hand, will be a first hand account of Stockholm Syndrome and how a prisoner fell in love with his captor. Assuming I live long enough to write it.
"You try yours first," I suggested.
"Okay," she said, and took a mouthful from her bowl. "Now you. Try it. Go on. Tell me what you think. It's a new recipe."
I looked at my bowl of food. It seemed to be the same as hers but mine definitely had a sinister air about it.
"You try mine," I suggested, offering her my spoon.
"Okay," said Tracey. She did.
"Now, it's your turn," she said, handing me back my spoon and continuing to stand looking over my shoulder, moving away only to bring me a cup from the kitchen. "I made you a cup of tea too," she said, placing it in front of me. "Take a sip. Go on. Try it."
And she was still smiling.
"I love when we play these little games," I told her as she offered me dessert. "But we're even now, right?"
"I'll be sure and tell you when," she answered sweetly, and then asked if I wanted her to pour me a beer.
"I don't think I'll drink tonight."
Drink. Relax. Sleep.
"You're enjoying this," I accused her.
"Not yet," she grinned. "But give it time."
She'll probably do nothing. But then she might strike just when I think it's all over.
Note to self: no more hiding nappies under Tracey's pillow.
I just hope I'm still here in the morning to get the memo.
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