"Does a man who irons clothes become Ironman?" The same joke every single time. That Sunday, I wasn't free to facepalm myself. We were running late to visit a temple. I asked him to iron my kurta. As usual, he reluctantly agreed. While I was getting ready, he suddenly yelled, "ouch!" I peeped into the room to see if he was ok. "I'm OK!" He waved me away. In a minute he came into the room and handed over my ironed kurta. I thanked him with a peck on his cheek. Somehow, we made it just in time to the temple for the event. Later, when we got back home, I took his hand in mine. I was horrified at what I saw. There was a large burn mark. "What happened? Why didn't you tell me?" He said in a meek voice, "While ironing your kurta, it fell on my hand. That's when I screamed. I didn't want you to worry, so I didn't tell you." I rushed to get the first aid box from the kitchen and applied ointment on his hand. I felt tears sting my eyes. He wiped them away. "It doesn't hurt much," he said, "because your love soothes me".
"It will always," I promised.
Today, I was ironing my dress for Monday.
My finger touched the iron.
It hurt a bit. Yet, it didn't burn as much as being away from him did.
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