table had lost its usefulness. He grappled it out of the way, lifting it up and across, plates and dishes and all, laying it on the bath mat. The chicken tumbled off its plate and onto the floor tiles, but it didn’t matter.
The water in the tub was almost opaque—dyed a pale red-green from the herbs, many of which had gotten soggy and sunk to the bottom. As the two of them moved around in the tub, squeaking into impossible positions, flower petals rose off the bottom, swirled to the top, and sank again. Nona slid her fingers along his leg, and he sank backward, cursing the faucet under his breath when it gouged him between the shoulder blades. She looked at him almost lizardlike, from under her lashes, seeming to imply that his little libido problem had been blown to smithereens, and that it had been her doing. He could be clever if he chose. He could make jokes. But being a mere man, full of animal passions, he would fall, if only a woman knew where to push.
She stopped. Her piano-playing fingers were still.
He half-sat up, starting to speak, abruptly horrified. She shoved against his chest with her left hand, shaking her head slowly, mouth half-open, her hand tugging softly at the chicken leg. He could feel it moving under his thigh. He flexed the muscle in his leg, pinning it there. What kind of horrible joke would she think he meant by it? What kind of psychotic …
She gave it a good yank, nearly going over backward—not with the force of the pull but with the shock of the gristly skin having come off in her hand. She jerked it up out of the water, gaping at it and throwing it at the same moment, rising half-out of the tub like a dripping Venus. She was incapable of speech, but her face was easy enough to read. This was like the apple core in the bathtub, only a million times worse. He tried to stand up himself to reason with her. But the act was beyond reason. Any further attempts at playing the dutiful, lustful husband were useless, a filthy charade. He waved the chicken leg bone, trying to think of something funny to say, trying to smile, but realizing at the same time that a smile would cement things in the worst way. He ditched the chicken bone in the water again.
“Honestly,” he said, thinking that he’d heard himself say that more than once tonight. “I didn’t mean. … It was working, damn it!”
“What was working? I don’t know what you had in mind—a childish joke or something worse. But it’s ruined now. The evening is ruined. Shut up for once. Don’t tell me what you meant. Not now.”
Then she was gone along with her bathrobe. He sat silently until the bathwater cooled down; then he got out and toweled off, trying to rub the stuck-on herbs away. He picked the chicken up off the tiles and then drained the bath until it clogged, cleaned out the mess of stuff that had jammed up the drain, and so on until the tub was empty. Then he sponged it out, piled up the dishes, ice bucket, and bottle and took the whole mess downstairs.
For fifteen minutes he lay on the couch, with dark unfocused thoughts washing through his mind in the usual pattern. First he cursed the whole notion of dinner in the bathtub, of advice out of magazines, of unnatural mushrooms, of Nona’s not giving him a chance to explain himself. He’d been misunderstood. She had jumped to conclusions, which was just like her.
Soon all of that faded. It occurred to him that senseless or not, her recipe had very nearly worked. It
had
worked. And it wasn’t so long out of his mind that he’d cooled off. Just thinking about it now was enough to fire him up. There must be something he could do to set things right. An apology was the first thing.
He tiptoed upstairs. She lay sleeping, completely relaxed. He stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the semidarkness. It was warm in the bedroom, and she was half out of the covers. Her breasts pushed at the thin fabric of her nightgown as she breathed, and he found himself
The water in the tub was almost opaque—dyed a pale red-green from the herbs, many of which had gotten soggy and sunk to the bottom. As the two of them moved around in the tub, squeaking into impossible positions, flower petals rose off the bottom, swirled to the top, and sank again. Nona slid her fingers along his leg, and he sank backward, cursing the faucet under his breath when it gouged him between the shoulder blades. She looked at him almost lizardlike, from under her lashes, seeming to imply that his little libido problem had been blown to smithereens, and that it had been her doing. He could be clever if he chose. He could make jokes. But being a mere man, full of animal passions, he would fall, if only a woman knew where to push.
She stopped. Her piano-playing fingers were still.
He half-sat up, starting to speak, abruptly horrified. She shoved against his chest with her left hand, shaking her head slowly, mouth half-open, her hand tugging softly at the chicken leg. He could feel it moving under his thigh. He flexed the muscle in his leg, pinning it there. What kind of horrible joke would she think he meant by it? What kind of psychotic …
She gave it a good yank, nearly going over backward—not with the force of the pull but with the shock of the gristly skin having come off in her hand. She jerked it up out of the water, gaping at it and throwing it at the same moment, rising half-out of the tub like a dripping Venus. She was incapable of speech, but her face was easy enough to read. This was like the apple core in the bathtub, only a million times worse. He tried to stand up himself to reason with her. But the act was beyond reason. Any further attempts at playing the dutiful, lustful husband were useless, a filthy charade. He waved the chicken leg bone, trying to think of something funny to say, trying to smile, but realizing at the same time that a smile would cement things in the worst way. He ditched the chicken bone in the water again.
“Honestly,” he said, thinking that he’d heard himself say that more than once tonight. “I didn’t mean. … It was working, damn it!”
“What was working? I don’t know what you had in mind—a childish joke or something worse. But it’s ruined now. The evening is ruined. Shut up for once. Don’t tell me what you meant. Not now.”
Then she was gone along with her bathrobe. He sat silently until the bathwater cooled down; then he got out and toweled off, trying to rub the stuck-on herbs away. He picked the chicken up off the tiles and then drained the bath until it clogged, cleaned out the mess of stuff that had jammed up the drain, and so on until the tub was empty. Then he sponged it out, piled up the dishes, ice bucket, and bottle and took the whole mess downstairs.
For fifteen minutes he lay on the couch, with dark unfocused thoughts washing through his mind in the usual pattern. First he cursed the whole notion of dinner in the bathtub, of advice out of magazines, of unnatural mushrooms, of Nona’s not giving him a chance to explain himself. He’d been misunderstood. She had jumped to conclusions, which was just like her.
Soon all of that faded. It occurred to him that senseless or not, her recipe had very nearly worked. It
had
worked. And it wasn’t so long out of his mind that he’d cooled off. Just thinking about it now was enough to fire him up. There must be something he could do to set things right. An apology was the first thing.
He tiptoed upstairs. She lay sleeping, completely relaxed. He stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the semidarkness. It was warm in the bedroom, and she was half out of the covers. Her breasts pushed at the thin fabric of her nightgown as she breathed, and he found himself
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