VI. The Lovers.

Our Rooming House—DUSK

Fighting the City traffic, I had to take an exit new to me to get back home. To my surprise it leads to a new area with trendy shops, restaurants, gyms, etc. along the boardwalk. Amazing I had never seen it, so close to Our Rooming House and the beach. I’ll explore later. I am eager to get back to Andrea after a trying day.

I am stopped by Maggie and Sailor Lou in the parlor. They have taken on an additional boarder in addition to the folks upstairs. He seems to be a cranky, balding, old man in a blue terrycloth bathrobe.

“Great. More people?” the old man growls as Maggie introduces us. Maggie gives a sideways glance, which I take as an apology for the new boarder, and then she and Lou make a hasty exit, leaving me along in the living room with the old man.

“You’ll just have to put up with me for a couple days, until I get into my new place,” I say already deciding to get out of this apartment immediately if I have to deal with this grumpy coot.

“And what’s this?” he now yells, spotting Andrea’s cat on the sofa. He scoops the cat up and tosses him outside as Maggie and Lou come back into the parlor to see what the commotion is about.

I am angry, and think, “He’ll pay if anything happens to that cat outside.” Then I decide I love the cat or at least Andrea too much to let it die for spite, and so run out into the lawn, catching him before he makes it the street. But the cat is merely about to squat and relieve himself, so I let him back into the grass to go, being careful not to let him dart away.

At length, I’m back in our apartment. Crossing the Threshold with the cat, I find myself immediately frowning at a large mess on a blue card table near my writing desk. On it are some shoes and things from the closet, pipes, drains and other plumbing related objects, all dirty and corroded, and a sign with huge childish letters: We Fixed Your Leak. I shrug at this, gingerly drop the cat, and then determinedly advance on Andrea still asleep in the bed.

I climb up into bed and unto my wife; she awakes and is surprised but willing. I throw back the purple robe, run a hand up her thigh, exposing black panties under the white gown. She squeals in her squeaky French accent:

“Should I remove my culottes?”

I say nothing. That is her funny word for panties. She acquiesces to my touch, and begins to slide them off but ruins the moment when she begins to giggle, trying to justify the moment.

“It’s been so long, Piteux. Do you think it’s all right?”

Piteux is her funny word for me. Pathetic one.