“But… but, you picked it out.” Startling. I lean sideways to look at her face, slip, right myself.
“Haven’t you learned by now that your lover is a genius? It was on sale. Practically free.”
“Well, still, I should have paid attention. It’s a waste.” I’m a waste.
“You should be glad that you didn’t get killed in a fire,” Con spins, cheeks splotched, eyes bright. “Kettles can be replaced. You, babe, cannot. Get over it.” Her voice rough, breaking, Con turns back to the mirror, swipes at her cheek.
Her moods flash past so fast. Where did that come from? “You’re upset. Are you mad about the pot?”
“No! Wait—yes. I’m mad that you think I care about a fucking ugly teapot. And I’m scared that I never know if I’m gonna come home to a burned-down house with you dead inside. And you bet I’m mad that you don’t see the difference. But mostly I’m mad that I have to keep convincing you how much I love you.” Facing me now, tears dropping onto her shirt.
Why does she have to get so melodramatic? “You don’t have to worry. Really. I’m fine. I’ve gotten along this far without burning down the house. I’m not going to die.” You’d get over it. And the other thing? No. Better not. Yes. “Besides, what do you mean, ‘you have to convince me’? I know you love me as much as you can, and if you can’t say it—”
“Can’t say it? I do say it! Christ!” She pounds the sink with her palm so that bottle of red mouthwash topples toward the drain.
What does she say? I look at the stained sink, the grimy mirror. Maybe I can clean in here, the next good day I have. “You say it?”
“Yes, I do.” Her voice softens. “I would think that would be the kind of thing you’d remember.” She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“So would I,” I lower my head, sniffling, the strand falling back into my eyes. She tells me how much she loves me. I feel myself turning to vapor, rising like steam above our heads. I wonder how often? I condense suddenly, plummet back down to the toilet seat with a thud. “I know—you’re right. I should write these things down. I should get organized.”
Connie leans against the sink, her mouth open. “That’s… what… I’m… saying?” She draws out each word.
“Well, Lu—”
“Fuck Luanne and the femme she rode in on!” Connie grabs her toothbrush and squeezes the paste so fiercely that it misses her brush and lands in a spiral on the floor. “Which was you, by the way,” she adds, applying a fresh squiggle of paste onto her brush with shaking hands and attacking her mouth.
“Easy honey. You’ll break a tooth.” I try to laugh, but my throat is dry.
“I know you think I’m her, but I’m not.” She spits into the sink. “And that’s not the illness fucking with your head, babe—it’s you.”
“It’s you, babe! It’s you!” Con turns from the mirror where she’s buttoning her pressed, white shirt.
Modeling the new red dress I bought for her fortieth birthday party, I execute a careful twirl. The short rayon skirt billows up around my thighs. Con catches me at twirl’s end, sliding her hand up to squeeze my ass.
“I guess you like it, then?” I bite her earlobe, tonguing the golf stud. She’s got on her dress shirt, black slacks. A silk tie with delicate pink petals lies on the hamper, waiting.
“I’d like this—” she slaps my ass, “in anything—in a garbage bag.”
“Well, then, I guess there’s no need for finery,” I make to slip away, but she pulls me in tight.
“Finery is good, too,” she kisses down my neck to the V of the dress, her right hand under the fabric, gliding to my breast.
I gasp, “I need to sit down. I’m going to fall.”
Con hoists me off the toilet lid, then pulls me back down onto her lap. “I’m dizzy, hon,” I mumble into her shoulder.
“Put your head down.”
We roll me over onto my belly, my forehead resting on the cool floor, my thighs across her lap. The nausea and dizziness start to pass as my ass begins to tingle, and a new lightheadedness emerges. Fingers run up and down the backs of my legs, making spirals on each upturned cheek.
“What about the dresses?” I mumble. Not dresses. Guesses. “Guests, I mean”—trying to grab hold of anything: the floor, my thoughts, the cold radiator’s foot.
“The guests can wear their own dresses. Christ! I love your ass!” Con’s hand smacks my ass; my clit reverberates against her thigh.
Yes, that’s true, their own dresses. “There’s dip too,” I offer. Please, please, hit me again. Her hand whistles down, thwack, thwack, thwack. I scream and moan and wriggle. All I see is red, a tent of red around my head. The dress, I realize, she’s pulled up my dress. My head is swimming in it. I’m so wet. Too wet. “Your pants,” I moan. “They’ll stain. What about the guests?”
“Fuck my pants,” she grunts. And I do. I hump against her leg; her hands, my ass, all have turned red; I can feel it. I see it in the red around me. Whistling smacks, shrieks piercing air, her hand coming down, coming down, coming down. “I love you,” my mind whispers.
“I love you baby, baby, baby, I love you, love you. Uhn!” It’s her—her real voice, sweating out the words, muffled by my dress. And the high keening, like a siren as she pushes two fingers in and I writhe and ride, wailing, to the rhythm of her slaps and thrusts. “Come now!” her voice suddenly rough, pushes me over. I howl, pulsing against her fingers. I hold her inside me, letting her feel my power, my inner strength, striated, squeezing. Finally, opening.
My throat is raw. My cunt is raw. I feel fresh and spent, together. The tile has warmed beneath my head and hands. I can still hear the screaming.
“Ups-a-daisy,” Connie calls from somewhere above. She’s trying to pull me up to her, but I need to be down, low, on the ground.
“The floor,” I try to unstick my tongue. “The floor is soft.” Soft? No, that’s not the word. Smooth? I try to explain, but Connie understands and is gently lowering me, on my side, to the bath mat. She places a folded towel under my head and I curl toward it.
“I need to turn off the kettle before we burn another bottom out,” her voice retreats, the pounding of her feet shaking the floor. Suddenly the strident call is interrupted with a sharp chirp that fades into a hiss.
Con’s face, puffing, appears above me. “Just in time. That’s why I decided to hurry things along a bit. Sorry about that.” She collapses with her back against the sink cabinet, her legs across mine.
“Oh, I didn’t notice,” I murmur, feeling hair in my mouth. The fancy French twist I’d spent an hour creating earlier has come undone.
“What didn’t you notice? The kettle? Or me hurrying things along?”
“Either. Neither.” I giggle, thick-tongued.
“I’ll bet you didn’t. Well, we both better find new duds, babe,’cuz you’re wrinkled and I’m stained. Also, I’m wrinkled and you’re stained.”
“Guess that makes us a good pair.” I’m waiting for my head to stop spinning.
“Guess it does,” she huffs, hauling me up. ”Pair of what is the question.”
She guides me to the bedroom where we stare into the closet, trying to figure out how to re-cover ourselves.
“…with me?” Con’s brow furrows.
“What? Yes, of course I’m with you.” What were you saying though…? “What was that last bit?”
She pretends to bang her head into the mirror above the sink. “There was no ‘last bit,’” she grumbles around her toothbrush.
“I just suggested that since you’re in here you might want to take a shower.”