Novels and Football

She has finished her Dublin crime novel. She is reading something new, but it's not quite as engaging. I am watching a footy game on the TV, grumbling under my breath at the ineptness of the players and the referees. She'll occasionally smirk or chuckle when I shout at the screen.

I catch her stealing looks at me, over the pages of her book that she pretends to be wrapped up in.

"How's the book, my love?"
"Good," she replies. She is completely lying. "How's the game?"
"You know perfectly well how it is," I voice annoyingly.

She smiles widely, bringing her book up to her face. Her eyes go up to the TV, and she's briefly caught in the moment.

"Go Sergio, you can do this!" I look at her, feeling betrayed by my own wife. She laughs and drops her book to pump her fist in the air when he scores a goal.

"Do I even know you?" I ask, my mouth aghast.

She smiles slyly, and slips the dust cover around the page. She gets up from "her chair", and sits beside me on the sofa. She snuggles her nose into my neck, wrapping her arms around my arm.

"I told you which team I cheered for during FIFA. Don't act shocked."

She lays her head on my shoulder, and watches the match alongside me, keeping her exuberance for Spain's goals to herself.

"Am I forgiven?" She asks innocently after the game. I raise my eyebrows suspiciously, questioning her motives.
"I suppose so," I smile. "But I am still pissed that Ireland lost."
"Hmm..." she voices, picking her head up off my shoulder. "Maybe I can help," she smiles.
"I doubt it, baby. I don't think anything will get me out of this funk."
"Not even if I kiss you?" She asks innocently.
"You can try, but be warned it might not work."

She turns my face so that it faces hers, and she softly presses her lips to mine. At first it begins gently, but quickly grows into something more passionate. Before I know it, I have her pinned beneath me, my hands all over her.

Amazing how novels and football make an evening.