Why Did We Leave Our Banjos At Home?

We are on a beautiful and relaxing walk in the nearby forest.
You comment that in many ways we are very similar to the trees that surround us.
I have to fight back the overwhelming desire to push you down and yell "timber".
You reveal that in moments of frustration you want to metaphorically chop me into kindling.

We are in our backyard on a beautiful summer's day doing some weeding in the garden.
I remark that in another life we could have been cute little puppy dogs.
You laugh and start to bark loudly, which is funny initially and then considerably less funny when it passes the 10 minute mark.
I finally get you to stop by smothering your face with long, deliberate, yet frisky licks.

We are preparing an amazing brunch, with you scrambling the eggs as I am toasting the bread.
You indicate that in a certain light we could pass for human-sized jars of dill pickles.
I am not sure how to take this but I instinctively turn my hat around and around trying to tighten it so you can't try to reach inside.

You wait until I am asleep before filling my water glass on my nightstand with a mix of vinegar, water, dill, garlic and salt and then placing my hand in it to begin the pickling process.

We are boarding a bus headed for Mexico.
I think that with the proper head wear we could easily pass for monarchs.
You turn slowly and regally towards me and silently indicate that you expect me to kiss your shoe.
I turn on my smart phone and start researching methods of regicide.

We are searching for wild rabbits to feed, all-the-while clutching pieces of carrots and celery in our hands.

You tell me all about an idea for a science fiction novel you thought of where large, dinosaur-sized bunnies try to feed wild humans scraps of vegetables.

I am quite surprised both by the thoughts in your head and also that I nearly dislocated my eyebrows as a result of those thoughts.

You stand there for a few moments, bemused by my reaction, before slapping me silly with a stalk of limp celery.

We are spending a rainy Saturday afternoon eating popcorn and watching movies.

I murmur to myself that I wish it was a sunny Wednesday and that we were eating peanuts and watching a magic show.

You bite your tongue to stop from saying something insensitive, after debating biting my tongue instead.

It is moments like this that make me wish you were a rubber tree and I was a plantation worker needing to extract your valuable rubber latex.

We have decided to repaint all of the rooms in our house.

You strike a particularly intimidating pose while wielding a brush.

I shrink away from you scared in equal parts by the pose and the brush itself.

To lighten the mood you shave off my carefully groomed and highly restrained mustache and delicately paint on an elaborately comical one in its place.

We are instituting new rules around the house that more closely agree with the laws of physics.

I wish that we could somehow bend the laws to make us significantly more attractive.
You make plans to cover yourself completely in magnetic tape.
I decide to carefully arrange the multiple prisms I have on hand to attempt to refract you.

We accidentally purchased 50 pounds of apples at the local farmer's market as we thought we saw a decimal that was just a pit.
You suggest that we bake a huge apple pie and, after it cools down, we hide in it and freak out your sister.
I get a horrible headache after 30 minutes of attempting a look that combines squinting, furrowing, and lip pursing all the while peeling apples for this pie.
In the end, you change your idea to just giving her a card and out of frustration I dump 20 pounds of peeled, cored and sliced apples on you, but decide to take the cinnamon and brown sugar home with me to use next time.

We are playfully playing tag in our bare feet on the sand at the beach.
I yell out to you that I love you despite the sheer amount of seaweed caked to your back.
You stop playing tag, cease smiling, slowly peel away the seaweed never once breaking eye contact with me.
Why did we leave our banjos at home?