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“The reporters are insane,” I tell him. “Everybody wants a piece of
you.”
“Well, this piece wants you.” And he takes my foot, nudging between
his legs with it.
I slowly crawl up on top of him, straddling him but not able to get chest
to chest with my belly.
He takes the small silver pitcher I have next to the tub and begins
pouring water over my hair. I arch my neck back, the blanket of warmth
coating my scalp and back and making me moan.
He kisses my neck. “Can I tell you something?” he asks gently.
I look up, meeting his eyes and nodding.
He smoothes my hair back, looking at me lovingly. “I love you very
much, and when we got married it was my hope that we’d be together
forever,” he states, “but that mirror thing,”—he points behind me to the wall
design I just installed—“is pissing me off. I lose my equilibrium whenever I
walk in here.”
I turn around and break into a smile, looking at the array of mirrors
installed on the walls, which reflect the mirrors on the opposite wall.
Turning back to him, I lift my chin, nodding. “You’ll get used to it.”
“You say that all the time,” he whines. “I put up with the gothic
fireplace in our converted barn home in Thunder Bay, the sewing machine
end tables, the fact that I have to walk through a wardrobe to get into the
master bathroom, but this mirror thing…”
He trails off, and I kiss his cheek. “It’s a conversational piece.”
He levels me with an unamused look.
I shake with laughter. “If you divorce me, we won’t still have sex.”
He twists up his lips. “Yeah, I figured.”