Saturday

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Listening to a baseball game, he lies sprawled on the couch, his legs hanging over the arm. The thwack of a solid hit rings out over the tinny radio speakers. She passes by, carrying a basket of dirty clothes. His hand snakes out, grabbing the hem of her shorts. She tries to keep moving but he holds on, tugs.

“Whatchoo need, baby?” she asks patiently. He holds up one finger, signaling silence as he waits for the pitch. She sighs, shifts her weight to her other foot.

“Gimme a kiss, “ he says. Smiling, she bends down. He kisses her, openmouthed and she pulls back, grimacing. “Baby, you got stank breath! Go brush. Smells like you been eating the kitty litter.”

“I do not. C’mere,” he says, tugging on her again.

“You do so. You’ve had two pots of coffee, a salami sandwich and god knows how many cigarettes today.”

They wrestle briefly and she breaks away. The sound of the washing machine filling follows her back into the room. An old fan sits in the corner, barely moving the stuffy air. “You brush yet?”

“Nope,” he says lazily, reaching for her. She dodges his hand, leaves the room. She comes back in, climbs on top of him. “Mmmmm,” he sighs, his eyes closed. She shoves a toothbrush into his mouth and begins awkwardly cleaning his teeth, giggling. He chokes and gurgles, tries to sit up. “What the fuck!” He tries to turn his head but she keeps brushing determinedly. Bubbles of toothpaste froth his lips, dribble down his chin, his cheeks, settle into the cushions.

“It’s gonna get all over the couch,” he protests.

“You keep saying we need a bigger couch, a longer one.”

Laughing, he flips her over, pinning her down. He spits a big glob onto her face, in her hair. Hooking her hands around his neck, she pulls his face to hers. She kisses him fiercely, the toothpaste mingling in their joined mouths. In the background, the announcer yells, “It's out of here!”