Smooth

Smooth

They meet in the hallway. Or,
rather, a hallway of sorts. Really it's just a square space, enough for
one person to move about as he or she goes about his business. In
exactly nine square feet, a person could enter two bedrooms, or the
greater expanse of the house itself, or run into the bathroom. This is
where they choose to go.

They have no choice, since
neither has any business roaming about in the nude. And they are nude -
&;quot;Pure nekkid,&;quot; he used to say - and this is an old
place full of sharp corners and angles that a stranger might later
regret. Between the two of them they have closed exactly three doors
inside the house: the bedrooms' and the bathroom's. At this point, it's
of little consequence who pulled the bathroom door shut, though this
might cause problems later. It is too soon to
tell.

The bathroom light is harsher than either of
them has faced in the past few hours. Neither is embarrassed. They've
already seen what is before them four-thousand and sixty-two times,
with an error rate of plus or minus ten, depending on who didn't notice
he - or she - was being watched. The bathroom is more modern than the
rest of the house: gray and white, chrome, smooth. It is not a
bachelor's bathroom, which makes sense, given the
situation.

They don't ask, &;quot;What are you
doing here?&;quot; Instead they smile sheepishly while making sure
not to shift their feet. This comes from practice. Shifting their feet
would be coy, flirtatious. All that ended the day she threw a phone
book at his head and he threw it right
back.

&;quot;The Rocky Bar?&;quot; she
asks.

&;quot;No, the Rose,&;quot; he answers,
snorting quietly. He knows where he is.

&;quot;The
Rose? You never took me there.&;quot; Her voice is too loud. Unlike
him, she doesn't know where she is. At least, this is what he tells
himself. But her eyes are clear, she seems steady. She reaches over and
touches his shoulder. &;quot;Bed
fluff.&;quot;

He laughs, the private joke somehow
setting them apart, and leans against the wall. The tile is smooth and
cold against his rear end, so he eases his back onto it slowly.
&;quot;You've lost weight,&;quot; he
says.

&;quot;Yes. Weight Watchers. And for a
while, laxatives.&;quot;

He sighs and chews his
lip.

&;quot;I can't believe I just said
that,&;quot; she says, &;quot;Sorry. Too much bad
wine.&;quot;

&;quot;Don't be sorry. You look
great.&;quot; And she does. Her hair is a mess; he can see the blue
veins in her thighs and along her breasts. One half of her face seems
bare of makeup, though this may be a trick of the light. She looks
great, anyway. &;quot;Really, you
do.&;quot;

&;quot;Thanks. So do you.&;quot;
And he does. He is bald - his hair is not an issue, it never was - but
she can see the neatly trimmed stubble he's grown to hide the slight
wattle under his chin, the ladder of his stomach tilting out of his
diminished paunch. He's had the chip on his front tooth fixed.
&;quot;Really.&;quot;

&;quot;Thanks.&;quot;

They
stand and smile at one another. She reaches behind her to rest her
hands on the sink, but thinks better of it. They once renovated a
bathroom together, years ago, the sink and linoleum and tile like
unsteady blocks being handled by a clumsy child. Anything, everything,
could come tumbling down.

&;quot;They're still
married,&;quot; he blurts. He wants this to be a joke, to cause the
type of giggles one gets while standing naked in the bathroom of a
strange house. He wants it to be the type of joke behind which there is
a grain of truth. He notices her toenails are painted a pale
blue.

&;quot;I know,&;quot; she says,
&;quot;He told me. Isn't that a riot?&;quot; She turns and pulls
the toilet lid down, then sits. It is not a riot, not a riot at all.
She might as well be comfortable.

&;quot;They have
a kid,&;quot; he says. He has taken her cue, and slides along the
wall to the floor. He brings his knees together, either for comfort or
modesty. He couldn't say.

&;quot;I know. She's
with a babysitter. Where's
ours?&;quot;

&;quot;Same. And probably still
pouting. Thinks he's too old for a
sitter.&;quot;

&;quot;Well, he is, isn't
he?&;quot;

The bathroom light surges, goes back to
its regular brightness. He starts to say power surge, but changes his
mind. He is spent, but her feet look lovely against the gray tile.
Whoever laid the tile miscalculated; against her blue toenails he can
see an errant piece, two right angles where there should be only one.
The pattern continues crazily, disappearing behind the
toilet.

&;quot;Oh, my back,&;quot; she says, stretching
her arms to the ceiling. Her back is not hurting her. It is a ploy.
Around her arm she can see his furry thigh, the joints of his toes, the
strong but capable hands she wrote about in a community college
extension course. She wants him to sit Indian style, his knees apart,
everything apparent. She leans forward and puts her elbows on her own
knees.

&;quot;The Rocky Bar,&;quot; he whispers,
grinning. This is her cue. She stands and gestures towards the toilet,
then thinks better of it. He won't need to stand back up after
all.

Afterwards, someone knocks on the bathroom door.
A voice - deeper than his - demands something. A higher voice joins in.
The handle jiggles, the frame rattles. Neither he nor she giggles. They
are both noticing the smooth coldness beneath their hips and shoulders,
the vacant space between their stomachs when they breathe. They are
both noticing it is warm someplace else, somewhere more comfortable.
Still, they don't think to shift their weight. Instead they stare into
each other's eyes, and kiss the brief kisses of human beings in
distress, until the door crashes open onto their feet and the room
fills with the noise of their past and, perhaps, their future. It is
too soon to tell.