Cooties

By Molly Gilmour

I called it a Cootie Catcher. My husband called it a stupid piece of folded paper oozing with hormones and glitter gel pen. We were both right.

“Pick a color.”

He resigned with a roll of his eyes. “Blue.”

“Number.”

“Sixteen trillion.”

“Number,” I repeated, ignoring his insolence.

He deigned to glance over. “Seven.”

“Number again.”

“Do we have to keep doing this?”

“Come on, maybe it’ll be something good this time.”

“Four.”

I lifted the flap that would determine his fate. “You will marry your worst enemy and live in the sewers beneath New York City.”

“I hate this game.”