Bathroom Monologue: Imperfect Couple

She was Unitarian, and he didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t mind. He was a Mystery buff, and she didn’t see why that meant watching made-up stuff instead of solving crimes, and that lead to fun disputes and a lot of necking. Working retail made her ankles sore and the soles of her feet growing unbearably hot for hours afterward. Working in the graveyard and unheated funeral parlor left his back and shoulders almost frozen to snapping. After work they lie in the funniest positions on their twin mattress, her feet resting on his spine, soothing each other, a detective movie streaming on the laptop, and something Literary on her Kindle.

They were perfect for each other for thirty-eight years. They were grateful for every minute. Some minutes? Merely in retrospect.

Bathroom Monologue: Never Okay

"What if her blouse is soaking wet?"

"Then that's gross."

"What if she doused it on purpose? Then she's inviting it."

"Then she's gross, and you shouldn't give her the attention she wants."

"What if she's wearing a really bright green bra that I can see through her tank top, and it catches my eye because it's so unusual, and I can't help but look for a second on instinct?"

"Then look for one second. No longer."

"What if she takes her top off?"

"In what situation are you going to see someone do that?"

"Well, besides with you?"

"That's becoming iffy as it is, Samuel."

"What if her tanktop snags on a passing truck, tearing it off? And she's thrown to the pavement by the sudden blow?"

"What the hell?"

"She could be hurt from her fall, and I'm the only one around. Surely I should go over and help her, and in the course of being a good Samaritan, I'd look occasionally. I'm her only hope of medical attention."

"Then throw yourself under the truck to stop the driver, and ride with her to the hospital."

"Cripes. That's just mean."

"It was your stupid hypothetical, Samuel."

"Well, is it at least okay to look at her boobs while we're riding to the hospital?"

"For one second. No longer."

Bathroom Monologue: An Assurance of Fingers

They are the least suited couple at every ball, yet no matter how often they attended, it was difficult to recognize precisely what ways they unnerve that no one else pursues. He seems ugly, yet greeting the hosts, he is no uglier than any other man on the floor, and no woman on the floor is necessarily prettier than her. Perhaps they simply go poorly together.

For instance: most admirers think him a midget, though face-to-face he meets the hosts in the eyes. It is that she stands too tall, with legs needlessly long, making the stout fellow seem downright squat. And he is pudgy, of course, a little thicker around the middle every year, and she wears far too much green. A skirt and bow, surely, but also a scarf and beret? It is garish, and he abets her fashion crimes, holding a peppermint tote bag or avocado jacket when she finally tires of it. And he's such a retch on the dance floor, barely able to keep up with her even if he leads, and he's suffering asthma in a chair in the corner in less than a quarter-hour. She drags his shame in here. It's all her fault, except he never complains, never seems to even be bothered by her enthusiasm, even when it's robbed him of breath and health. So it's all his fault.

And though she's not exceptionally slender or fair or flesh, she must have some tawdry hooks dug in his plump flesh. She's leading him along into here, the manipulations of young lust, and so it's her fault. Even if he leers after her less than half the boys here leer after their half of the girls, and even if she never subtly dispatches him for drinks by mentioning a thirst rather than making a request, or otherwise seems to passively use him as the women of the ball are ought to.

I've never seen another lady touch the back of a man's neck like that - it's always a provocative gesture, yet her fingers are dainty, as though trying to assure him of a thing. I've never felt that assurance of fingers. Maybe that's why I hate them when they're together. No, no, it's got to be that they can't keep feet to rhythm. Unwashed louts.