Emily's Strange Life Chapter Two

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A few hours later and I'm seeing my boyfriend off on another potentially fatal trip. Naturally, I concentrate on being perky. However worried I feel the last thing Michael needs is me bringing him down ahead of a mission.

“Be careful while I'm away,” Michael warns me “I worry about you.” He does too. He's off to the wastes of northern Canada where literally everyone will want to kill him and he's busy worrying about me.

“Do you have your pistol handy?” He asks me

“It's at home, safely locked away.”

“Emily, I didn't get you a concealed carry permit so you could lock your pistol away. It's no use to you locked away. There are some bad hombres out there.”

“I know, but I'm no good with guns. You should remember that.” Michael took me to a shooting range a couple of years ago because he wanted me to be able to defend myself while he was away. The first shot I took with his 1911 the recoil nearly broke my wrists besides causing the barrel to buck so high that if it had been an indoor range I would have put a hole in the ceiling. Passing birds were in danger! Michael had to get me a .22 pistol that fires what he calls 'teeny-weeny ladylike bullets' , with a smirk that makes me want to reach for the rolling pin. One of the things about dating very manly men, I've come to realise, is that however encouraging they try to be they find it cute and funny watching women fail in manly pursuits. The odd thing is, I swear he also looked a bit relieved. Still, he probably spends enough time around crack shots without getting it at home.

“Remember,” he says “Stay fit and healthy – I have evil plans for you when I get back!”

“How evil?” I ask, smiling up at him flirtatiously

“Well, I'll start by giving you a good seeing to and after that I'm afraid you're too young to be told, so I'll just have to demonstrate.” He pulls me close and I squeak and slap at his hand as he slips his fingers under the waistband of my skirt to touch me intimately. In a crowded airport! I let loose an outraged giggle

“You are sooo rude!”

“Nonsense! It's not my fault you're an innocent.”

“Of course,” I say, preening, “Far, far, too sweet and innocent to understand what you're talking about.”

“Never mind,” he says “I'll be back soon to give a practical demonstration.” and with that and a kiss that leaves my insides melted he is gone.

The warm glow he leaves me with lasts all the way to the car park where I burst into tears. Honestly, I'm so silly, this is no way to react to a routine separation, Michael is definitely nt sexist, but no wonder I occasionally get the feeling he's exasperated with my outbreaks of silliness when I behave like this, even though I try not to do things like this in front of him. Really I'm lucky it's not worse; some of Michael's friends are sexist I know. They don't mean it in a bad way, I'm sure. They like me, they think I'm good for Michael but because I stay home and care for my boyfriend I can tell they think I'm somehow submissive, or even inferior.

In fact I be have the way I do, caring for Michael, worrying about his needs, waiting on him, because I see this as a complementary partnership; he pays the bills and guards and looks after us. I look after Michael's health and happiness and make sure he has a warm, clean, safe refuge to come back to and love and care for him while he's there. If I was working outside the home I'd expect a different division of labour. Some of Michael's fellow officers or NCO's don't understand that though. They see me so busy and happy, looking after Michael and they see a hausfrau, an amiable bimbo. They don't understand that I'm a strong, capable independent individual and this is a deliberate act of love. I know Michael doesn't think that way though. Even though he sometimes teases me by pretending to be sexist, calling me his pretty little wench and slapping me on the a- on the backside or hiding my clothes so that I have to make breakfast in the nude, he respects me, I know it.

He doesn't think that way. He just doesn't.

I know he doesn't.

Blowing my nose and pulling myself together, I head home in the little economy car he got me for my last birthday. Michael has a Ferrari but he doesn't let me drive it. It's not because I'm a woman, he just doesn't let anyone drive it except himself. Michael explained that to me very carefully and I believe him.

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This story is 815 words long.