Sin mas preambulos, el fragmento!
I glared at him, then pushed the cart harder, making him stumble. But he hung on, pulling me back against him, his fingers spreading across my stomach. Then he leaned down and whispered, right in my ear, “What if I throw down a challenge to Don, right there over the dinner, daring him to eat that entire jar of sun-dried tomatoes and chase it with a stick of margarine? And what if” –and here he gasped, dramatically –“oh my God, he does it?
I covered my face with my hand, shaking my head. I hated it when he made me laugh when I didn’t want to: it seemed some huge loss of control, so unlike me, like the most glaring of character flaws.
“But you know”, he said, still in my ear, “that probably won’t happen”.
“I hate you”, I told him, and he kissed my neck, finally letting go of the cart.
“Not true”, he replied, and started down the aisle, already distracted by a huge display of Velveeta cheese in the dairy section. “Never true.”