Actual conversation from our bedroom, late at night:
"Hey, Honey...check this out."
"No, here--feel this!"
"Come ON! Put your hand right here."
"NO! I am not touching that thing! I HATE that thing!"
"Please? Seriously! (grabs my hand, as I fight to get it back) Put your fingers right across here, and feel it!"
"Alex, STOP IT! You know that thing creeps me out, and I AM NOT TOUCHING IT!"
"TOUCH IT! TOUCH IT RIGHT NOW!!!"
I scream bloody murder, and this all goes on for some time.
He has a piece of sharp, cast-iron shrapnel--from a really stupid accident involving a lawn tractor and a T-post driver a few years ago--embedded in the muscle of his right forearm. It occasionally migrates close enough to the surface so that it can be seen and felt, and when he moves his hand around, the metal chunk moves, and this all holds an extremely high gross-out factor for yours truly, a fact of which he is well aware. *shudder*
Filthy-minded little beggars, every one of you.