I punched Jethro in the balls when he snored.
To be fair, the tv was up as loud as it could go, and I was just about to solve a Medical Mystery. Jethro had dozed off and was snoring apneatically and at certain intervals, I would do him the favor of punching him on the leg so he would start breathing again. But being engrossed in the program, I had failed to notice his body shift and when his epiglottis had sealed long enough for me to become unconsciously concerned, I punched without looking.
I felt a certain thrill of horror shoot through my arm as my fist bounced on something soft and warm and jiggly instead of the muscle and bone I'd been expecting. I drew back my arm in consternation as Jethro's breath whooshed out. He curled, slowly, slowly into a fetal position, and slowly, slowly opened his eyes. I sat there, transfixed as a look of pain and confusion came over his face.
"You racked me!" he said, in a hurt, bewildered, accusatory way, looking at me with his sad, sweet eyes.
And then I laughed. I tried not to. But the more I tried not to, the harder I laughed. I'm laughing now. I hate myself.