Bruce and I fought last night.
“Stop giving me tone!” I said. I’d said it a hundred times, and every time, I think, “Tone? When did I start calling it tone? I sound like a mother scolding an unruly child.”
Bruce of course denied giving me tone, and then said, “Well, you gave me tone,” before he acknowledged that maybe he did give me tone but that he had a right to do it –sort of like, “My dog doesn’t bite. That’s not my dog. I don’t even have a dog.”
But Bruce had the upper hand. He was about to give me my progesterone shot. A progesterone needle, if you haven’t seen one, is like a caricature of a needle, the kind of needle Wile E Coyote might pull out of a box that says, “ACME Needle.” Did I say I hate needles?
I usually ice the injection site for about 15 minutes, or until the spot is so cold, it aches. I want it so numb, I can’t even feel Bruce in the room. But despite the ice, I can sometimes feel the jab of the needle, and the injection of the oily liquid. I know it’s done when I feel Bruce wiping away the residual oil on my bottom. I always imagine he’s wiping away blood, but I take it for granted he’s not.
But last night the injection hurt more than most nights.
“You did that intentionally,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
Note to self: argue with Bruce after progesterone shot.