Wrestling

In our bedroom, with dark, muted blue walls, I sift through my pajama pants to find a pair to exchange for my fitted jeans. I slink into a pair of yoga pants, but leave my sweater on, eager to sit down and relax for a few minutes.  J comes up the creaky, carpeted stairs into our room. Turned towards my dresser, I put a few trinkets back into my jewelry box. He tackles me onto the bed. I laugh a little and say, “I don’t want to wrestle.” He counters, “Oh, you’re so boring; you never want to wrestle.”  “I’m a grown woman, and I don’t enjoy wrestling,” I state as he pins me to the bed. Squirming to the right, I try to roll out of his range unsuccessfully.

J says, “This is what people do. It’s cute. I want to wrestle with you; you’re my wife.” Working hard to get out of his grasp, “Ow, you’re hurting me. Please stop. I don’t want to wrestle.” “Oh, stop being such a baby. You’re tougher than this. Try to get out,” he continues. I gather my strength and buck him off of me; I hit him a few times and he laughs. After several more minutes of struggle, he traps me in another position and I bite him to get out. He reacts, “What the fuck, Jen?! You bit me?!” His eyes turn to steel; he gets off of me.