Even in a loving, successful marriage there can be times when you want to wring your partner’s neck. Or at the very least, get a little testy. Even I—yes, even I—sometimes will admit to feelings of annoyance with Glen. Because he asks for it.

Glen is a tease. I learned this early in our relationship. He’ll tell me something outrageous with a convincing air, and while I’m venting my ire, shock, disbelief, etc., he’ll pause and look me in the eye. Then he’ll open his mouth and bleat: “Ba-aa-aa-aa-aa-aah.” Because he got my goat. Again.

You’d think after more than 30 years of this I’d be wise to him. But either I’m the most gullible human on the planet, or else he’s a superbly gifted actor, because I still believe him . . . every . . . time. Don’t tell him I said this, but that’s kind of the fun of it, actually.

Sometimes he likes to keep the joke going for a while, just because it entertains him. Evidently, my behavior is predictable, and I can be relied upon to react the way he wants me to. For several months now he’s been yanking my chain every few days with an object that would seem to have minimal entertainment value: a bottle of water.

The water that comes out of our pipes is filled with minerals. Whatever it spills or splatters on must be wiped off, or else a scaly crust forms within days. For all I know, it builds iron-hard bones and fingernails, but I can’t make myself drink it. I feel like I’m drinking gravel. As a result, we keep quantities of bottled water in the house at all times. Glen likes his water refrigerated. When he leaves an unfinished bottle around the farmhouse, I’ll put it back in the fridge so he’ll see it (and finish it) first before grabbing a fresh one. I, on the other hand, like my water at room temperature; I keep it in the pantry. Glen knows this.

We are the only two human beings living here. Lucy and Phoebe drink out of a bowl on the floor. So when he opens the refrigerator and finds a partial bottle on the shelf, does he make the safe assumption that it’s his? Of course not. He’ll say—every time—“Is that my water?”

“Yes,” I’ll say. Or, “What do you think?” I’ll say. Or, at the end of my rope, “You know damn well that’s your water because I don’t keep mine in the refrigerator!” Sometimes I’ll just shriek and yank out fistfuls of my hair.

A week or so ago I was in the next room when I heard the refrigerator door open. I waited. Sure enough, here it came.

“Is that my water?”

I—of course—snapped out one of my predictable replies. Then I heard him give a low chuckle. At once I pictured him wearing a wicked smile as he stood bathed in the cold light cast by the open door, and that’s when the truth dawned: That jackass has been having me on.

This calls for action on my part, but unfortunately, I can’t think on my feet. Therefore, since I’m not the kind of person who comes back with a snappy response when the situation demands it, I’ve prepared a list of responses in advance. Next time, I’ll be ready for him.

Glen: “Is that my water?”

Me: “No, that’s Charles de Gaulle’s, but I think we can assume he’s done with it.”

“No, it’s radioactive waste.”

“You didn’t see the news? The refrigerator’s been hacked. That’s Vladimir Putin’s water.”

“No. That’s the matrix that holds 50 quadrillion parallel worlds.”

“Don’t defile it! That’s holy water for the vampire hunt tonight!”

“No, it’s that new Milk Zero. It looks like water, but I guess that’s the ‘zero’ part.”

“No, goofy, it’s condensed steam.”

“It’s protoplasm. I’m saving it in case we need to make the world all over again.”

Glen: “Is that my water?”

Me: “There is no ‘water.’”

Glen: “Yeah, there is—right here.”

Me: “There is no ‘here.’”

Glen: “Is that my water?”

Me: “Is that your water? It depends upon what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”

While doing a Geoffrey Holder impression: “No, it’s de UN-water. Mah-velous! Ha ha ha ha haaaah!”

“No, it’s Elvis’s, but you can finish it. He’s left the building.”

“I think we’d have to consult the Private Real Property Rights Preservation Act on that, don’t you?”

“No, you fool, it’s the Lord Satan’s!”

“No!” *sob* “It’s a bottle of my tears!”

While dressed as a dominatrix: “No, it’s Mistress Susan’s water. Now, what’s the safe word, you worm?”

In the long run, though, the snappy response strategy may be just too exhausting to keep up. Between Glen and me, when it comes to stamina, I’m the one who tires first. Besides, I don’t want to be petty with the man I love. The nicest thing to do would be to just say, “Yes. I give up. You win. That’s your water.” So I will.

Now let’s see him drink it.

Thank you and good night!

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