Last week, Mrs. Hatboy and I were in the sauna enjoying a quiet moment after Wump and Toop had quit for the night and gone out to watch TV.
“I have a confession to make,” I told her.
“Hmm?” she replied.
“I’ve … kind of started work on my next book already. I’m … actually kind of almost done with Part One.”
Mrs. Hatboy snorted. “Of course you are. What, did you think that when you finished work on your latest book, handed copies to your editors, and then told me you’d like to go for a write night, I wouldn’t assume you’re writing again? What else would you be doing out there? You could be having a really quiet affair, I guess.”
See, this is why I love my wife, the mother of my children, the keystone of my existence. She gets me.
Of course I’m not having an affair, because I’m not a complete fucking imbecile and I know when I’m onto a good thing. Also, I barely have the time to make my best lame efforts to keep one woman happy. Like I’m going to load another one on there?
No, no affair. Only the one all married writers have. The significant other, and the keyboard. And Mrs. Hatboy has tolerated this particular mistress vying for my attention for … well, around about two decades now. Ever since we met online.
An emotional third party in a partnership is what it is, regardless of whether it’s made of flesh and bone. And regardless of whether there’s actual sex involved [pause for porn joke]. I still think it happens to count, and while for the most part it goes unspoken – the wife and the mistress may know of one another, but never meet, and never speak of such things – on some days it bears repeating. That evening in the sauna, it was simply acknowledged.
Janica will be enjoying a well-deserved Mother’s Day today. She is the only person in the world for whom I would ever put away my keyboard.
I’m just grateful she has never asked me to.