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But a Big Dream - Chapter 3

Sometime's a girl just wants to fish.

She had honed her cast for years for one reason and one reason only.

Scene: Chiasa, mild-mannered young Sansei, academically competent (even for an Asian—huzzah), prone to profanity, shorts a la jailbait, now wearing an Angels hat with the requisite ponytail, and unlimbering the old axe clumsily—whoops! got the hook caught on her favorite T, the one with the heart outlined in the sequins, and now I guess I put the worm on this somehow, maybe by tying it in a knot?

Damselfish in distress.

Some towering Samoan who’s been angling since he was two can’t help but notice—and no, this is not sexual. Not all fantasies have to be sexual.

This fantasy is entirely not sexual.

This fantasy is not entirely sexual.

Well, you never know with these things.

So he walks over, fingers covered with opalescent scales and blood, blotting out the sun with his body. He doesn’t even need to say anything—maybe he’s mute—he just grunts and opens a palm to indicate a willingness to do the gruesome preparatory work. She places a hand on her heart, mouths “My her-o!” and is on the very cusp of handing over the rod.

But she jerks it back like something beloved, plucks a shrimp from the bucket and runs the hook through it in one vindictive movement, then waits for a sign from the tower, tells the stewardesses to sit their asses down, and sends the rig flying 25, 50, damned if it don’t clear 100 yards (personal record, but don’t act surprised). Set it, wink, click of the tongue, and then her best shit-eating grin.

Now you’d think at this point the guy would say something like, “Maybe you can cast for me instead.But this guy doesn’t say a word, if he’s even capable of it; just looks right at her, an expression of begrudging camaraderie, then walks away, goes back to slicing baitfish, and never again underestimates a fisherwoman. She has implanted in his mind a new archetype.

This has never happened, but the possibility it might justifies all the careful training in Piscean arts. Her acquired vocabulary of knots and rigs, her deftness in reading the vibrations of the line and cock-teasing whatever barracuda and groupers patrol the waves, her agility with a knife. One day.

But also nota bene, there was nothing sexual in the scene at all, this time. He didn’t put his calloused hands on her waist and pluck her up like a ballerina, didn’t leave a trail of fish gunge on the flat of her belly; no breezy cabana witnessed their wordless copulation.

Which always puzzled her, since she viewed her body as a robot crafted to breed and nothing else. And note this doesn’t even so much as smack of sexism, since she categorized men’s bodies exactly the same, and indeed all life, including the sand crab she was currently impaling. So why should not her every dream and waking thought be seasoned with lust and a constant reminder of the ‘bottom line?’ Life wins by racking up sins. Perhaps the machine was not crafted on the blueprint she imagined, but recall she had stopped going to church long ago, so her universe held no candidate who could have imparted any other goal to the programming.

The second possibility, and this she took more seriously, was that even our most platonic reveries are reproductive in some hidden way. Freud’s fallen out of fashion, natch, but she can’t help but think this is a little unfair. He had a keen eye, and maybe he misdiagnosed how our genome’s desire to duplicate is symbolized in any one scenario—that whole anal and oral stage stuff was a spectacular misfire, or off by a decade at least—but the hunt he was on seemed, to her, eminently practical.

But her body, its hands, she observed, were now catching fish only to gingerly disengage the hook, attempting surgical skill in harmlessly drawing it out of cheek or tongue, then releasing the speckled wonders back into the sea, with a solicitous benediction. She held a big-eyed flagtail—aholehole, the guidebook called it—breathing in her hands, its lateral line dividing two moraines of turquoise. The moment she touched its body to the surface it came to sudden life and raced out into the big water, hopefully a little wiser. If there’s sex or nutrition in this gesture, she doesn’t see it. But she was young, and she allowed that there was much she didn’t know.

Then it hit her. So bleeding obvious. The rod was shaped like a cock. The rod was a rod.

She settled her rump on a jut of scoria and watched the world light up as the sun rose behind her, spilling down from the mountains in one vast gush. She ticked the pole occasionally, as older men passed by, some of whom she’d seen other mornings, and asked about her luck. They traded tips on the best spots, and one was even kind enough to draw her a little roadmap in the sand with his foot. She learned the fish’s effervescent Hawaiian names, long lines of syllables that go rattling by like freight trains. On Maui, fishing is how you say life.

Arthur: Macbeth.

Chiasa: The fuck?

Arthur: Sorry, autocorrect. Drunk. Morning there?

Chiasa: It’s on its way.

Arthur: You’re fishing.

Chiasa: Oh my goodness! You are so psychic! I am impressed! Ravage me you brilliant beast!

Arthur: Whore.

Chiasa: The hoariest.

Arthur: Catch anything?

Chiasa: One of the hepatitises, can’t remember which. Oh. You mean fish.

Arthur: Hepatites. Learn your declensions. Going to go lay in the bath. Mind if I dream about assfucking you?

Chiasa: Student confuses ‘lay’ and ‘lie.’

Arthur: To restate: Ich bin drunk.

Chiasa: Well, let’s get to it then.

Arthur: To what?

Chiasa: The sodomy. I assume you start by ripping off my quite expensive blouse, sending buttons everywhere?

Arthur: Wait, seriously?

Chiasa: Before I change my mind. Or get a hit.

Arthur: I’d gently place my hand on the back of your head, bring your lips to mine… then make a fist, pulling your hair tight.

Chiasa: I’d mime being upset by such indelicate treatment, but that’s hardly believable. Our tongues tango around each other.

Arthur: I’d put my hand round your neck, run a finger between your magnificent, Jupiter-sized breasts, down your abdomen, and plunge it into your swamped panties. Possessively.

Chiasa: I’d approve, splaying my fingers on and then kissing your pecs, pushing your shirt off. Possessively.

Arthur: Fingers exploring that velvety vulva.

Chiasa: Alliteration will get you everywhere, Mr. Molyneaux.

Arthur: Petting that lush, lecherous, limber, lickable, lamentably lovely labia.

Chiasa: All yours, my love. Every inch, in point of fact. Feeling your hot cock through your pants. My palm caressing it up and down, petrifying it.

Arthur: Jesus, woman. Expanding you with my fingers.

Chiasa: Honey for you. Fumbling with your fly.

Arthur: I think we both know you could open a fly blackout drunk, blindfolded, with nothing but your teeth.

Chiasa: I think I figured it out. And there you are.

Arthur: Not quite, keep pulling.

Chiasa: Ah, there’s more.

Arthur: The most careful attention to your clit, nudging it out of its hood with my thumb to massage it lovingly, while my fingers start sliding in and out of you.

Chiasa: Taking you into my hand. Just holding the length of you. Feeling the heat.

Arthur: Jesus Christ you’ve got a giant cunt.

Chiasa: Things said by guys with a tiny dick for $1000, Alex. Now fingerfuck my pussy until I can’t stand it, while I play with your balls.

Arthur: And we’re unlatching the bra.

Chiasa: Now they’re going to dangle. You have any idea how much that hurts when you’re taking it from behind?

Arthur: I’ll push you against the window. Lots of support.

Chiasa: A gentleman. If you don’t mind, I’d be very interested in taking you in my mouth right now.

Arthur: I refrain from using my veto.

Chiasa: You better have washed this shit.

Arthur: You bet. Washed it off inside some slut’s box a few hours ago.

Chiasa: So I taste. Blonde, right?

Arthur: Uncanny.

Chiasa: Drooling up and down your shaft, making a wet, slimy, molten, quite tasty mess.

Arthur: Massaging your scalp appreciatively.

Chiasa: Popping a nut into my mouth, tonguing it around diligently, then the other.

Arthur: Eyes up here, darling.

Chiasa: Never quite understood that urge.

Arthur: Happy to repay the favor at a later time.

Chiasa: Not a desire I have, strangely enough. But I will oblige for people I like. Gazing up at you while you clog my mouth with cock. Well, would you look at that, there’s a whole person attached to this dick.

Arthur: Giving you a thumbs up.

Chiasa: Eye roll. Dick so wet with my spit as I take the end past my lips.

Arthur: Shuddering.

Chiasa: Washing you clean with my tongue. Feeling your precum round my mouth, through gaps in my teeth. Stretching my lips…

Arthur: Still shuddering. Pulling your hair tight again.

Chiasa: C’mon, give me an adjective here… while I let you fuck my slick mouth, every bump and ridge of you running back and forth under my pink, full lips.

Arthur: Pulling your gorgeous raven tresses tight like I’m trying to tame some wild animal.

Chiasa: Ah. Nice. Hungrily gulping cock here, pushing that monster down my throat, choking.

Arthur: One of my favorite sounds. Pulling your face down on me by means of the aforementioned tresses.

Chiasa: Spit and Arthur juice coming out of my mouth as I slide up and down with a quickening pace, gagging.

Arthur: Have I ever told you how beautiful your eyes are?

Chiasa: What color are they?

Arthur: They are the deep, mysterious brown of strong coffee.

Chiasa: You really do care.

Arthur: Never dated a Jap who had anything else, so could have been a lucky guess. Drawing this absolutely gorgeous creature gently upwards, with a finger under your chin.

Chiasa: You’re quite the gallant. And I am one cool chick, but the J-word is verboten.

Arthur: I apologize. (For real.) And I gallantly turn you around, and press you against the window.

Chiasa: Cold on my bare tits, but you’re quite aware I like that. Neighbors watching?

Arthur: Only that Mormon family across the street.

Chiasa: Hi, Mordecai! You worship a mountebank!

Arthur: Fumbling with your fly.

Chiasa: Get those fucking things off of me.

Arthur: Shoving everything down to the ground, pooling around those scandalously whorish pumps.

Chiasa: I can take them off.

Arthur: You will not fucking touch them.

Chiasa: Then fuck me like the filthy animal I am, I say, as I offer my little tush up to you with a wink.

Arthur: Little? Getting my cock wet with your cunt juice, anticipating the attack.

Chiasa: Fuck babe, don’t make me beg.

Arthur: Stretching you out with my middle finger, exploring a bit, feeling you lock down on it and loosen.

Chiasa: Moaning low and achingly, my body unconsciously readying itself for you.

Arthur: Anything’s better than that Chihuahua yip you do.

Chiasa: It’s coming… Baby, I want you in my asshole so bad. I want you to rip me open with that big old dick of yours.

Arthur: Inch by inch.

Chiasa: Yip! Yip! Yip!                    

Arthur: There it is. Starting up a slow tempo. Opening you up just a tiny bit more with each eager thrust, but I can take my time doing this.

Chiasa: So fucking delicious. Give it to me.

Arthur: Balls deep into that bulbous derrière.

Chiasa: You seriously bothered with the accent grave?

Arthur: Going to open you up like I opened that vowel, slut.

Chiasa: Nice!

Arthur: Pushing into you again and again, and it is not easy, but it is worth it for the pleasure of having you airtight, hermetically sealed around my invading cock.

Chiasa: You are so goddamn deep. Promise me you’ll fuck me like a whore until I can’t take any more.

Arthur: Slapping a nice bright handprint on your cheek as I ram into you.

Chiasa: Mmmm. Hun, come on, at least make it symmetrical.

Arthur: Smack for the pair. How is your ass so fucking firm with all the milkshakes you down?

Chiasa: Bulimia for the win. Art, baby, I want you to give it all to me. Don’t worry about me, just fuck me as hard as you can. Also, how strong are these windows?

Arthur: Don’t worry. I asked the realtor about just such a usage.

Chiasa: I don’t mean to get all romantic here, but I want you to paint my back with your cum. Splatter it and rub it in. Mark me like territory.

Arthur: You are like a fucking baked good inside it’s so hot. I could spend my life punishing this ass with not a single regret. Epitaph: he punished that ass.  Exodus 12:23.

Chiasa: Mmm, blasphemy. Hurts so very, very very very good.

Arthur: Slamming against you. Hip to rear, faster, faster.

Chiasa: Holy shit, yipping, yipping. I adore the way you fuck my sweet little asshole.

Arthur: I am going to cum all over you. I am going to dump a pint all over you.

Chiasa: Wait, got a fish.

Arthur: Are you fucking kidding me?

Chiasa: Shit, feels like a big one. Probably a humunukua’nak’oa’. Which is totally real and not something I just made up. Think I’ve got to sign off here.

Arthur: Not amused. At all.

Chiasa: Ah, you’ll be fine, dipshit. Watch some porn.

Arthur: This is why men climb bell towers with rifles. Bitch.

Chiasa: That’s for calling me a Jap, shithead.

Arthur: I’m sorry! Babe, come on!

Chiasa: Merry Wives of Windsor, you ofay fucker.

There was no fish, but it was time to check the bait.

Now let’s be perfectly clear—you should see how fast this girl can work a reel—that was absolutely the right thing to do. As to why, that’s something for historians to puzzle over.

Arthur: You are not easy to love.

Chiasa: ;-)

Whilst the feminine wiles were still warmed up, she flirtatiously cadged a Marlboro Red from a grizzled kanaka who had set up next to her.

“Going to be a good day,” she said, and smoked that thing till spark met filter.

And then she caught a ta’ape with the saddest face she’d ever seen, which she promptly named, kissed and released. After that, the geezer next to her ceased his attempts at starting a conversation. When she asked for another cig, he gave her the pack and went walking down the jetty, in search of the ultimate fish and some less crazy bitch.

Chi wished him well with a little prayer, and lit another cigarette with the first. Catch and release made her think of last night. Her bruised ass made her think of last night.

Art had ceased texting, which was fair evidence he’d either finished and passed out, or was perusing his library for le porn juste to cap the experience, plastered on that giant bedroom flatscreen of his, volume turned up just enough to piss off the downstairs Catholic couple. Like any modern girlfriend, Chi ran regular inquiries of her current mate’s Internet habits (read porn). Thus she’d ensured he was neither a serial killer (at least, not a sloppy one), nor something worse, like a writer of vampire fanfic. Her beloved’s one password was a mix of his favorite movie—Die Hard, like three previous boyfriends—and the name of his first pet. It’s a combination which she could’ve figured out within a few weeks, if he hadn’t simply told her. A transparent attempt to disarm her—how could anyone that open be hiding anything? So there was no need to go snooping.

So she’d gone snooping.

As it turned out, he wasn’t hiding much, although the bank account was impressive, and it was to his credit he didn’t brag about it more. He had taken an improv class a few months ago of which he had completely concealed all signs (there were pictures, all lame). But as to his tastes in pornography, where you’d think the dirt would all be gathered in one towering pyramid of filth, that he was delighted to talk about without prodding. Favorite ‘actresses’ of course he had plenty—and though he didn’t seem to have noticed, more than half of them resembled a certain Japanese brunette. Fat-assed, buxom, epicanthic folds. She never pointed it out; kept it for a rainy day.

Forget the cute shit though. Even Chi had favorite pornographic actresses (she found the flexibility involved in the better gangbangs to be impressive). But her man had favorite actors in porn; he could describe notable dicks. Who was circumcised and who wasn’t, whether one banked left or right or hooked it. Knew their patterns of pubic topiary with surprising accuracy. It wasn’t attraction—she didn’t think—it was hero worship. Which meant every so often, as they smoked pot on his couch and marveled at particular nude feats of acrobatics on the big screen, Chiasa had to touch his wrist and say, “These are performance art, you know. They’re not how-to manuals.”

“You’re saying you don’t want six men to caulk your porcelain doll face with half a dozen consecutive loads?”

“I have nothing against a traditional Easter celebration. I’m just saying that a woman—a flower, like myself…”

“Specifically, a water lily.”

“A water lily?”

“That’s how I see you.”

“Why a water lily?”

“You’re beautiful, you’re delicate, you’re in bloom, and…”

“I’m always wet.”

“Exactly. You’re my water lily.” At times, he wasn’t entirely repulsive.

“Yeah, great, give me the name of a whore in a Pearl Buck novel. Anyway, me, the water lily, beautiful and delicate, doesn’t necessarily want to have her tits repeatedly slapped.”

“Necessarily.”

“Or want to be choked, with hands or otherwise.”

“Not necessarily?” There was something charmingly boyish coming to the fore here.

“Not necessarily,” she finally said, aware that the possibilities of the situation were rapidly collapsing.

This was a tragic flaw, her Midas touch. She couldn’t talk to a man about sex without making him want it. She could say—sometimes had said: “We are not fucking tonight” and whoever she’s addressing will have no other goal for the rest of the evening.

He had taken a toke and paused the TV, while giving her a deeply appreciative look, as if just realizing she was sitting next to him. “What else don’t you necessarily want done to you?”

She backed away from him. “Say you and a friend—in fact, who’s the one who brought the coke last week?”

“Fitz.” He started to stalk her across the couch, hands and knees.

“Weird name. Say you and Fitz have got me spinning between you like a goose on a spit.”

“Which end do I have?”

“Which end do you want?”

“This is a trap. Chiasa, you have no bad ends. But I feel like the gentlemanly thing to do would let Fitz get blown. Then again, fuck Fitz, you’re my girl.”

“You prefer my mouth to my snatch?”

“Fuck me, it's a trap! How about we take an hourglass and switch every five minutes?”

“Solomonic.”

“And I’m not even of the tribe. So the two of us are enjoying you, and…”

“In such a situation, I’d prefer you not high-five.”

“Not necessarily?”

“Not at all.”

“I think we’ve had a meeting of the minds here.”

The fuck scene stayed frozen on the widescreen, in flagrante, a mass of beiges, the female belly for a moment arched while her partner leaned back. The actress had a dramatic look of pain or delight, which Chi at first figured was simple theater, but on second thought, given the extraordinary spar upon which she was being hoisted, how could that look be anything but genuine? After all, could one possibly acclimate to that? Need more and more of a stretch each time you shoot up? Must remember to Google “girth tolerance.”

If the answer was yes, that was simultaneously encouraging and disappointing.

Art had passed her the joint, something she definitely needed substantially more of than when she and the rest of the theater club got stoned under the football bleachers. She took a hit, breathed it back into his mouth and then they held it in the pocket between their lips. She’d barely had time to get her skirt down to her knees, and he was already naked down to the socks. He came plunging into her like an ambulance with a gun shot victim storming the ER dock. There was no movement, just their joint moan of relief.

Then they fucked in the manner of industrial equipment.

The neighbors had to be mollified.

The sofa, which was new, had to be replaced.

Given she was on the pill, and anal, there was no danger of pregnancy, but there was born that night an idea, an idea which matured into a preoccupation, which went through puberty and became an obsession, which graduated into an unrelenting fever.

Art wanted to fuck her with Fitz.

This creation (which Chi, of course, had mothered as sure as any offspring) made its self known in suggestive jokes, interesting guest invitations, and subtle references, like when Art said, “I’d like to fuck you with Fitz.”

Zeus thought this was an absolutely brilliant idea, and immediately started drafting blueprints that demonstrated the exponentially increased possibilities that result from adding a third person to coition.

“Assuming the blessed event takes place in the borough, I named this one ‘the Brooklyn Bridge’ in honor.” He’d slapped his schematic against a window.

“I count seven legs.”

“That’s no leg.”

“Fitz would appreciate that vote of confidence.”

He threw up another plan, this one involving a series of pulleys. “You picked him.”

“I did not. All Art’s idea.”

“I’m sorry, do I look like the type completely unaccustomed to and thus vulnerable to your bullshit? Do I look like that fucktard?” He pointed at Art, who was drooling into his pillow, bare pale ass procumbent, snoring.

“Don’t call him that.”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong—I like him. We may go out sarging together later; he might even be able to teach me something. But don’t change the subject. You deliberately planted a lascivious image in soil you knew to be quite fertile—oh, and that was a nice little touch pretending not to know his name. And then just to make sure that little notion bore fruit, you played coy in a most irresistible fashion. Now, do I have analysis of your libido down to a science or what?”

“I’m honestly not sure.”

He gave a skeptical grunt, stood there tapping his foot, waiting for her to admit he was right, but eventually couldn’t resist moving on and showing her “The Holland Tunnel,” an arrangement that resembled roasting a suckling pig. Two of the participants had smiley faces, and the third probably would have as well, had she been able.

She’d had an organic chem text cracked open between her legs, which made her think on those days long ago in her parent’s house when Zeus had first appeared. She liked to think there was more to life than this: studies and fuck fantasies. And as far as that went, the latest diagram, the accurately titled “Meat-Packing District,” seemed workable even with one partner. She gave Art a poke, then another, and he rolled over and went back to snoring.

“Chiasa, light of my life, if you’re looking for action, I’ve got fifteen minutes before I have to be back in Athens. We’ve got a football game against the giants.”

She observed the resting organ of her lover, the reddish patch of tinsel above it, it and its owner at peace, dreaming dreams she honestly was a little scared to contemplate.

“Thanks, my love, but I’m going to try my luck with the fucktard.”

“Your loss. You want to see ‘the Trump Tower’ before I go?”

“I’m not into scat.”

“Fair enough.” He blew her a kiss, then went out onto the balcony, opened an umbrella, took a step off and plummeted out of sight, yelling about how Julie Andrews always made it look so fucking easy.

She poked Art again, this time right up under the rib, with no effect. She blew into his ear, tickled his feet, picked a gold nugget out of his nose. He made a clumsy slap, but didn’t open his eyes.

Now she wasn’t even horny, but fascinated with the possibilities for experimentation. Slamming an organic chemistry text. Subject produces increased stertor. Sustained pinch of the left buttock. Subject farts. Inhalation of a two point one inch line of coke off of the subject’s flaccid shaft results in short-lived euphoria, but subject remains in REM.

So she put his dick in her mouth.

Effect: subject awakes.

Does he ever.

During the following twenty minutes, they wreaked destruction from the bedspread, across the bedside table, on the desk chair, against the desk chair, and then on the desk itself (there was a pen jabbing her tuchus, and the blotter and she were moving in unison across the mahogany), followed by a series of flips of her entire body which Art accomplished with the miraculous strength usually reserved for mothers saving their children, ending with her nipples squashed against the wood, two of his fingers in her mouth like a bit, him jackhammering her until she came with a run-on scream of profanity that exhausted the English wordstock and plunged into her Mandarin reserves and finally a few Japanese swears she’d heard her father utter while she was a child and he was battling the backyard gophers. She finally dropped her face into the puddle of her own saliva and lay quivering like a shot animal, with Art passing the finish line moments later, marked for her by the impact on her lower back of a slug of cum, then another that amazingly reached her occipital bone and remained matted there like a hot piece of gum.

“Just… fucking… love you,” he said, spinning around drunkenly and collapsing again on the bed. The snoring resumed shortly thereafter.

She opened her mouth, but, as usual, closed it without saying anything. She didn’t mind texting a little “Love ya” from time to time, but it caught in her throat. And her fucktard boyfriend didn’t care either way, so far as she could tell. She gave his ass a slap as she headed for the shower.

“So,” he said the next morning, eating Frosted Flakes with a ladle, “when Fitz and I fuck you, does that mean I get to fuck his girlfriend with him? Just as a matter of etiquette?”

“Do you even like Fitz?” she asked.

“I do not. I do not like him at all. He makes more money than me, he gave The Last Jedi ‘six out of five’ stars, and his hair is fucking amazing, isn’t it?”

“Sweet European Jesus, it looks like artisanal chocolate being blended. Bet it smells like almond butter.” She cracked a few eggs into the pan, plucked out an offending shell.

“It does,” Art said.

“Arthur.”

“Uh oh.”

“Do you think they’ll be able to get the series back on track in the third movie?”

He spewed cereal. “Back on track? Back on track? They couldn’t revive the series if it was Carrie Fischer floating through fucking space using her Jedi pixie dust! Remember when Luke died… FOR NO FUCKING REASON?”

“That’s how they learned that there had to be a back exit to the cave. Remember the bling antelope?”

“THEN WHY DIDN’T HE JUST TELL THEM THERE WAS A BACK EXIT TO THE CAVE?”

“Have some fucking bacon.”

“I’m going to eat some fucking bacon! What were we talking about?”

“Think they’ll re-right that ship?”

“Not a chance in hell!” he said through a mouth of pig.

She kissed his forehead as she slipped into his lap. “I agree. And there’s still more chance of that than a devil’s threeway with you and Fitz.”

“Babe, really?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, for real? Or is this just to lull me into a sense of complacency, while you artfully plan a surprise for my birthday?”

“Well, if I was planning that surprise for your birthday, this is how I’d lull you into a sense of complacency. But I’m not doing that. It’s not going to happen.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. I just know you have a lot of energy, and I’d like you to channel it into something productive.”

“Ok.”

“You could write Star Wars fanfic.”

“I’m not a fucking nerd. Wait—when did you see that movie?”

“I read the Wikipedia summary. Sounds lame. Was there really a kangaroo chase?”

“I don’t know, I slept through a lot. I think Benicio del Toro had a cameo.”

“So we’re good?”

“Babe,” he said, and he jumped up with her in his arms, “of course. I was just kidding the whole time. Hahaha!”

“No, you weren’t.”

“No, I wasn’t. Anyway, let me tell me about this dream I had about you last night.”

“It involve your desk?”

“It did involve my desk. Let me demonstrate.”

She found herself being carefully carried back to the bedroom. There were times he threw her around like a sack of tubers, but now she felt like the most precious piece of cargo ever shipped.

“I love you,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

She was laid on the silk sheets of the bed she had just made.

“Get it?” he said. “Like Empire?”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“Fuck you! We’re watching that tonight! Fuck you! In fact, we’re watching it right now.”

She cupped his scrotum and looked up quizzically.

“We’ll watch it later,” he said.

Afterwards, effect: subject says, “I love you, too.”

 

The sun was getting impertinent, and if one more passing guy offered to apply lotion she’d throw a sinker at his face. So she called it a morning. One of her thousand.

Arthur: Joke’s on you! Finished on your pumps.

There was a picture.

Chiasa: Joke’s on you, dipshit. Those aren’t mine.

Arthur: Fuck.

Christ, she missed him.

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