We’re standing in the kitchen, heating up leftovers. I make a plate of steamed veggies, then hand Joe a plate of cold pasta.
Me: “Stick this in the microwave for 30 seconds.”
[Joe abides. Timer beeps. He pulls out plate.]
Me: “Is it hot enough?”
Joe: “I don’t know. Come here and tell me.”
Me: “You just tell me.”
Joe: “I’m not touching your food.”
Me: “What? Why? I don’t give a shit.”
Joe: “Because it’s wrong. And gross.”
Me: “But we’re married. What’s mine is yours.”
Joe: “Not in this case.”
Me: “I’m sure most people would agree with me.”
Joe: “I think you’re wrong. I think most people would say marriage does not mean you’re granted permission to touch your spouse’s food.”
Me: “What if your spouse grants you permission?”