The Duel

He said it was cluttered, I said it was clustered. Cluttered. Clustered.
I know clustered when I see it. It was very clearly clustered.

Back and forth it went.

We bickered, batting combatant words like a tennis ball around the courtyard.

Then he struck a low blow.

He said he didn’t like what I did with the plants.

I didn’t like that he didn’t like what I did with the plants.

It, of course was not about the few plants in pots.

It was a territory battle. The garden is his, apparently.

It seems, unbeknownst to me, in a treaty unsigned by my fair hand, he was awarded ownership.

Back and forth we traded insults with all the panache of two juvenile delinquents.

Idle threats were made – “I’ll just move them back when you’re not here.”

“I don’t think so.”

With the ball in my court, I went for the slam, “You should be nice to me.”

“I am nice to you.”

“You should be a whole lot nicer, I am your wife.“ He grinned at that.

This duel ended as only duels can, with pistols at ten paces.

Water pistols.

He doesn’t shoot fair, in fact, having grown up with a younger brother he’s unscrupulous and borderline vicious, aiming for vulnerable water-averse places like inner ears (the Geneva Convention be damned!)

Growing up with two older brothers, I’m well versed in the art of commando water warfare and am nothing if not malicious and persistent.

Shots were fired, streams found their target, much ground was covered - up around the vegetable garden, under the grapefruit tree, vantage points were taken up, behind the chook shed, sniper action was encountered, until at last the ammunition was all gone and we were both very wet.

This high noon showdown and the preceding squabble I am ashamed to say was witnessed by neighbour friends who’d dropped by. They feigned mock discomfiture at our arguing until I reassured them, “Don’t be worried, we argue so we have something to make up over.”

They thought we were (and remain) quite mad. There was a real risk that they too would get caught in the drenching water crossfire.

Our kids looked on in amusement before returning to the sanctuary of the house – they decided to leave to the safety of the neighbour’s house, taking the neighbours with them.

Water dripping from our respective heads, we retreated into the house in search of towels. When I’d dried the worst of the soaking, I went in search of him – retribution would be mine. I meant to make him pay.

I cornered him in the kitchen, puffing myself up to my full five foot, six inches I was at my most menacing best. I can be formidable you know? I could tell he was scared, he had that look in his eye - scared enough to immobilise my wrists in a tight grip and pull me into the walk in pantry.

His fear oddly manifested itself in the desire to shuck me out of my top. He pushed my bather top up until my tits bounced free. Perhaps he felt I’d be less of an opponent when rendered semi-naked. Whatever his cunning plan, my breasts seemed to be the target of his attention.

“You can’t do that, I’m still sandy from the beach.” He didn’t care, pulling the gritty flesh into peaks making me grunt a little with each tug.

Soon my shorts were on the floor and I’m was being lifted bodily.

This part of the duel ended as only a pantry based offensive can – with fucking.

Me, splay kneed on the counter, him with jeans tugged down to his ankles, standing between my thighs. Him, pushing his way into me, kissing me to stop my moans escaping our hideout. Kissing me to stop me talking, kissing me to stop me claiming my rightful victory.

“Clustered.”

“Cluttered.”

“Clustered.”