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Rated: ASR · Short Story · Romance/Love · #2293783
My husband & I found unorthodox methods of showing affection through matching accessories
My daughter clambered into her car seat. She batted my hands and yowled when I tried to buckle her in. Four-years-old and already convinced of her eighteen-year-old independence. Good thing she was cute though unfortunately, she did know it.

Content in my role of supervisor, I observed her pull the safety belt over her booster seat and click it in. I pulled on it just to verify its security and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Told you I could do it.” Her tone made me roll my eyes.

Heaven help me when she became a teenager. Between her and my two older daughters, my sanity was likely to be found in a liquor bottle or a mountain of chocolate.

I strode around my mom’s car and opened the passenger door. Tiffany’s happy babble distracted my mom so she thankfully didn’t witness my next move. I bent down to get in. I don’t know if I was distracted or tired or something, but I misjudged the distance.


Pain blinded me! Lightning arches shot from my forehead, where I’d connected with the side of her car.

“Ow! That freaking hurt!” My fingers groped the throbbing area. I blinked my eyes, trying to clear my sudden spinning vision.

My mom asked, “What happened?”

Still holding my head, I shook it and slithered into the leather seat, making sure to overcompensate for my collision and avoid the ceiling. My mother’s worried brown eyes locked on me, waiting for an explanation. I flipped down the visor and opened the compact mirror.

“Nice.” A flustered laugh crawled out of me.

In the center of my forehead, a red circle bloomed. The swelling was about the size of a quarter and a bead of blood welled up from the scrape. My index finger prodded the wound, making me wince at the pained knot.

“What did you do?” Mom asked.

I sighed and said, “I hit my head getting in the freaking car. I don’t even know how I did it.”

If only such accidents were a rarity.

If only.

The next morning, my husband hopped out of the shower so I could enjoy my wakeup of warm water. We hugged in passing and then started bantering as he dried off and I bathed.

A sharp crack interrupted our conversation.

Silence followed.

I asked, “What happened?”

Still no answer.

Afraid of what I might find, I slid the shower curtain open. My husband weaved on his feet, a towel in one hand from drying himself off and his other hand holding his forehead. My gaze flicked down at the porcelain toilet in front of him then back at the towel.

A giggle leaked into my question, “Did you just hit your head on the toilet?”

Red colored his cheeks and blotched his Irish-white chest. He nodded sheepishly.

The laughter burst out of me against my will. I couldn’t help it. Not because he’d hurt himself but because sometimes, we were too much alike.

He laughed too when I shared the tale of my accident the day before, explaining the unpleasant lump on my forehead. Like any good couple who’d been married for over a decade, we sported our matching unicorn horns with smiles and good humor.

After all, we both knew it wouldn’t be the last time we smashed our heads into something and bubble wrap just wasn’t an option.

Plus, only true soulmates can rock a set of matching unicorn horns in style.

Or, something like that.
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