Mark went away to a conference last week and when he got home he was exhausted. He had obviously been forced, once again, to stay up until 3 am with his peers. Bastards. Of course, they were talking about important 'business'. These conferences are not for the weak.
So rightfully, I felt bad for the poor baby as he hovered somewhere between demanding crispy crunch be brought to him and drooling into the couch's armrest. Slumped over as he was I went to sit down beside him and like a thirsty man grabbing for Gatorade he put his hands on my decolletage.
'I like your boobs.'
'Good thing that you married a woman whose boobs you like then', I countered.
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