who only once put a fork into an electrical socket. Yet here I am falling in love with Gunn even though he looks so pitiful covered in his mother’s bodily dust. What should I do? What should I say aloud? What can anyone say at a time like this? Do I confess my crimes, say, “I love you,” and expect Gunn to forgive me?
I’ve heard it happens in a whopping pile of romance novels.
I mean, the heroine catches the hero “bedding down a kitchen wench” yet forgives his cheating heart even when he says, “If you loved me, I wouldn’t have had to bed down the kitchen wench” and then he says, “I love you” to make it all better.
I guess I could go ahead, assassinate Gunn, and make it look like he fell in the bathtub. Or, I could smother him with his own chest hair. A simple up-do, and he’s done. Do I do right by my creepy brother, who is really a wimp, cries at chick flicks, and is afraid of moths, and make what’s left of my family proud of me, or do I turn my sexy Slovenian, Brazilian, naturalized American heel on everyone—except Cat, who’s certainly dead as a doornail—whom I hold dear? I feel so much angst.
Meanwhile, Gunn wept sad and sorrowful tears of sadness and sorrow for his mother, for Cat, for the mess in his living room, for the gradual decline of democracy as a functional government in a world increasingly given to socialism, and for the free market economy stymied by governmental tariffs, treaties, an incompetent Congress, and the slow-footed and chaotic UN.
But when Gunn looked up, he saw Thais’s lips moving. It was a good thing he was once deaf thanks to a really bad job at a pharmacy with an old man named Gower, because Gunn could read those lips. “I feel so much angst,” those lips said. Thais, the cop with heels sculpted by warm Brazilian sands, was reaching out to him. Thais, the contortionist who taught him yoga position number thirty-four, was feeling angst. Thais, who had asked him lovingly to Wet-Vac his mother’s big-boned ashes, was crying for his help.
And then a thought hit Gunn like a freight train hitting those stupid semi-trailers that have gotten stuck on the tracks and someone had the sense to film it with his or her cell phone.
I love her, Gunn thought, because Thais Knotts makes me feel safe.
Johnny appreciated the irony of it all. “She’s there to assassinate you, stupid!” he yelled.
The mice shook their heads, too, and Johnny continued to type.
Thais Knotts makes me feel safe and secure, Gunn thought.
But mostly, Thais Knotts made Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn feel. He felt. It felt good to feel. It made him feel full of feelings that felt good. His feelings were strong. His feelings were virile. He couldn’t ignore the manly feelings coursing through his Scotch (or Irish, or both) veins. Felt feelings must be released, he thought. He needed to feel something. He needed to feel feelings for someone who made him feel.
“ I don’t know what to say,” Thais said, not knowing what to say.
And neither, again, did Johnny. He was exhausted, emotionally tapped out, and it was way past his bedtime. What do other romance writers do when they’ve run out of meaningful plot?
Duh.
So Gunn kissed Thais. He kissed her so she didn’t have to say anything. He kissed her so he wouldn’t have to say anything. They kissed each other, not speaking, mind you, in a silence without words of any kind, so neither would have to say anything for a long, long time. It was really quiet except for a whole bunch of lip smacking going on.
Her lips felt good to him, and his lips felt good to her. They kissed each other hard, loosening teeth and even bruising the little spaces under their noses, those spaces that have a name that nobody knows except maybe anatomy students, Jeopardy contestants, and those nerdy kids in the national spelling bee.
Her tongue tasted like dusty Hummel figurines mixed with coffee and donut sprinkles. His tongue tasted like Tom Collins, Johnny Walker,
I’ve heard it happens in a whopping pile of romance novels.
I mean, the heroine catches the hero “bedding down a kitchen wench” yet forgives his cheating heart even when he says, “If you loved me, I wouldn’t have had to bed down the kitchen wench” and then he says, “I love you” to make it all better.
I guess I could go ahead, assassinate Gunn, and make it look like he fell in the bathtub. Or, I could smother him with his own chest hair. A simple up-do, and he’s done. Do I do right by my creepy brother, who is really a wimp, cries at chick flicks, and is afraid of moths, and make what’s left of my family proud of me, or do I turn my sexy Slovenian, Brazilian, naturalized American heel on everyone—except Cat, who’s certainly dead as a doornail—whom I hold dear? I feel so much angst.
Meanwhile, Gunn wept sad and sorrowful tears of sadness and sorrow for his mother, for Cat, for the mess in his living room, for the gradual decline of democracy as a functional government in a world increasingly given to socialism, and for the free market economy stymied by governmental tariffs, treaties, an incompetent Congress, and the slow-footed and chaotic UN.
But when Gunn looked up, he saw Thais’s lips moving. It was a good thing he was once deaf thanks to a really bad job at a pharmacy with an old man named Gower, because Gunn could read those lips. “I feel so much angst,” those lips said. Thais, the cop with heels sculpted by warm Brazilian sands, was reaching out to him. Thais, the contortionist who taught him yoga position number thirty-four, was feeling angst. Thais, who had asked him lovingly to Wet-Vac his mother’s big-boned ashes, was crying for his help.
And then a thought hit Gunn like a freight train hitting those stupid semi-trailers that have gotten stuck on the tracks and someone had the sense to film it with his or her cell phone.
I love her, Gunn thought, because Thais Knotts makes me feel safe.
Johnny appreciated the irony of it all. “She’s there to assassinate you, stupid!” he yelled.
The mice shook their heads, too, and Johnny continued to type.
Thais Knotts makes me feel safe and secure, Gunn thought.
But mostly, Thais Knotts made Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn feel. He felt. It felt good to feel. It made him feel full of feelings that felt good. His feelings were strong. His feelings were virile. He couldn’t ignore the manly feelings coursing through his Scotch (or Irish, or both) veins. Felt feelings must be released, he thought. He needed to feel something. He needed to feel feelings for someone who made him feel.
“ I don’t know what to say,” Thais said, not knowing what to say.
And neither, again, did Johnny. He was exhausted, emotionally tapped out, and it was way past his bedtime. What do other romance writers do when they’ve run out of meaningful plot?
Duh.
So Gunn kissed Thais. He kissed her so she didn’t have to say anything. He kissed her so he wouldn’t have to say anything. They kissed each other, not speaking, mind you, in a silence without words of any kind, so neither would have to say anything for a long, long time. It was really quiet except for a whole bunch of lip smacking going on.
Her lips felt good to him, and his lips felt good to her. They kissed each other hard, loosening teeth and even bruising the little spaces under their noses, those spaces that have a name that nobody knows except maybe anatomy students, Jeopardy contestants, and those nerdy kids in the national spelling bee.
Her tongue tasted like dusty Hummel figurines mixed with coffee and donut sprinkles. His tongue tasted like Tom Collins, Johnny Walker,
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