I’ve been electrocuted twice. Once when I stuck my finger down an electric candle as a kid and once 11 years later, after meeting my husband. The first time he held my hand, I felt sparks flying off my fingertips. It’s corny to say, but I’ve loved him ever since.
You wouldn’t know it now, 13 years later, because we’re standing in the middle of our kitchen fighting. But not just any kind of fighting. We’re fighting about fighting, and both of us are too maddeningly stubborn to admit how ridiculous this really is. This leads us in circles, like dogs chasing our tails. Twenty minutes later, after he storms upstairs, I reach for the wonton wrappers and pull out a pot.