“I’m going to Priceline to get some sunscreen.”
“I have sunscreen. Got tonnes of it. In the garage. In the car. There’s even a tube I left on the back fence.”
“I’m not using that stuff.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with it? It’s SPF Heaps. Works fine.”
“Fuck off. It’s like putting Dulux wall-paint on my skin. It’s horrible.”
“I put it on mine.”
“You go right ahead. Your skin is not my skin. I need my sunscreen to have moisturiser in it. That Boat Gorilla Banana shit you use is like some wound-paste they put on shot soldiers.”
“You’ve got all fancy on me.”
“No, idiot. It’s got nothing to do with fancy.”
“What’s it got to do with then?”
“You like the way I feel?”
“Very much so. You’ve got beaut skin. It’s all soft, and smooth, and it smells really nice, and…”
“Step the fuck back. That was not an invitation for you to grab my boobs. No, another few steps. Good. Now, to what do you attribute the way my skin feels?”
“Good breeding? European heritage? A strong and violent husband who protects you from all harm?”
“No. It’s because I look after my skin. I don’t smear wall-paint on it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my sunscreen.”
“You’re a tattooed fucken crocodile. So it doesn’t matter. I am not a crocodile.”
“Can I put it on you when you come back?”
“Fuck no. You touch me and I’ll spray it into your eyes. What? Why have you got that frown on your face?”
“I’m just thinking if it’s worth being blinded. It might be if the blinding is not permanent.”
“I’ll make sure it’s permanent.”
“Then you’ll have to look after me.”
“I already do. You being blind won’t make much of a difference to my work load.”
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