1642734778_punk-57-pdf

What a baby. He knew when he married me that I liked being creative.
Even if I wasn’t any good at it.
I reach over and flip the knob, turning on the shower over us. It falls
behind me, but it creates a pleasant buzz.
“You need to put in an appearance,” I say.
I hate pushing him, and I normally don’t, but sometimes I worry he
doesn’t live it up enough.
“Will’s been calling like crazy,” I point out, “and he even bugged me at
work today. He says you need to ‘ride the ride while you can.’”
“I am,” he maintains and then he tightens his arms around me. “I just
want to make music with you, and I want people to hear it and love it, but I
don’t need to be bigger than this. I don’t need the hype. I’m happy.”
I caress his face. “Most people don’t get a chance to be a god,” I say.
“Are you sure you’re not missing out? You won’t live forever, after all.”
“No, but my music can.”
He always has the perfect answer for everything. He’s right. He’s not
missing anything. Would we be happier, sacrificing the time we have
together to give it to others? No.
“And you and me in the lyrics,” he finishes. “That’s all that’s important,
and I won’t tolerate any distractions. I’ve only got one shot to do this right,
and that’s what I’m doing.”
I bring him in, kissing him. I love him so much.
But his words remind me of our favorite rapper, and I pull back, unable
to resist teasing him. “Hey, ‘only one shot’ just like in Eminem’s ‘Lose
Yourself.’”
And I start singing the song, belting out the lyrics at the top of my
lungs.