Jacob hated bedtime. Especially with Ethel.
Every night was a battle—and not metaphorical.
He was fluffing his pillow when he heard it:
that soft whoosh of cotton death incoming.
“I thought we agreed—no more surprise attacks!” he yelped, blocking the incoming swing.
Ethel, in her robe and curlers, growled,
“That was before you stole my side of the bed again.”
Jacob huffed.
“It’s the same side we’ve shared since 1972!”
Ethel raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly. I’m due a rotation.”
Feathers exploded. The lamp wobbled. The cat fled.
Jacob muttered,
“I married a sleep-deprived gladiator.”
Ethel smirked,
“And you brought a snore to a pillow fight.”
