The steaming hot water pours down over him.
“Counting all different ideas drifting away / Past and present they don’t matter / Now the future’s sorted out / Watch her moving in an elliptical pattern / Think it’s not what you say / What you say is way too complicated / For a minute thought I couldn’t tell how to fall out”
He lets the water fill his mouth, before spitting it out in a stream against the wall.
He shuts the water off.
He dries off quickly and wraps a towel around his waist.
He leaves the bathroom, still humming.
“You’re not ready,” she says.
“Almost,” he replies, noticing the blue dress she is wearing. “You look hot!”
“Don’t start. We’re going to be late.”
He sits on the bed. He tries to beckon her over with a little sideways head tilt.
“Not happening, you.”
“I understand,” he replies, rubbing a spot on the bed right beside him.
“You’re not as charming as you think you are.”
“Oh I knoooooow,” he says while nodding.
“Other women may find you adorable, but not me.”
“And why would you?” he asks faux-supportively rhetorically.
The blue dress is folded over the back of a chair.
She is too.
His right hand wrapped in her hair, pulling her head back.
His left hand tracing down her back.
He leans over her.
Teeth on shoulders.
Teeth on neck.
Teeth on ear.
Words whispergrowled in ear.
“You’re a grown ass man, and you are telling me that you think Hugh Grant reached his…”
“Zenith. It means–”
“I KNOW what it means,” she hisses, without removing her head from his chest.
“You are telling me that Hugh Grant reached his zenith as a performer in Two Weeks Notice?”
“That is correct,” he replies.
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
“When Sandra Bullock accused him of calling everywhere except Slurpee Heaven to block her from getting a job and he replied, ‘That is not true. I did call Slurpee Heaven. They didn’t want you. Heard you had attitude. Said you weren’t “Slurpee” material,’ his delivery was the stuff of legends.”
“I’m sure. Did Sandra Bullock reach her zenith too?”
“She was fine. It was a romantic comedy after all. Casting her in any other kind of movie is like paying a hooker to mow your lawn.”
He’s on his back.
On the bed.
She holds her tongue.
And the headboard.
His hands explore.
The bed strains.
So does he.
To remain in control.
She won’t allow it.
She throws her head back.
She puts her dress back on.
“My hair is a mess thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he offers.
“You’re not at all sorry.”
“Well that is true.”
“We are SO late,” she mumbles, mostly to herself.
“Probably should have left earlier, huh?”
“I’m going to punch you.”
“And hurt this cute face? Why? Why would you want to do that? Why?”
“Gotta say… I didn’t know a Canadian could bring it like that.”
“I’m sorry… what did you say, woman?”
“You heard me.”
He is up off the bed, grabbing her, and putting her over his shoulder.
He drops her, somewhat unceremoniously, on the bed.