I am Super Wifey’s husband. I visit the sports store to buy her a trophy.
It is about six inches high, made of tin on a base of plastic wood.
I takes it home and show it to her.
‘What is this one for?’ she says. (She already has a tiara and a ‘best housewife’ apron and a magic dick-hardening wand.)
‘You are best wife evarrrr,’ I say.
‘Yes, I am pretty awesome aren’t I?’ she says, still not taking the trophy. She is wondering if I can resist making the joke about her being a trophy wife. If I resist, that would be points for taste and restraint. But if I do make it, she’d probably give me points for sheer cheek and immaturity. I can’t lose – but she doesn’t want me to know that.
‘You are so lovely,’ I say. ‘You made me feel so good last night. Take it.’
‘Oh, so this is just a sex trophy? You just like me for the sex?’
‘What else would it be for?’ I say, my face a mask of innocence.
‘Bastard,’ she says.
Now she takes the trophy.
‘Now you are my trophy wife,’ I say.
Now she groans and pretends to hand it back, but I refuse.
‘No, Super Wifey,’ he says. ‘You keep it. You have earned it.’