He went back to trying to clean his 'good' shirt. In walked a more humbled Lisa. "Are you finished with your hurt feelings?" he asked, but not as harshly as he thought he should have been able to. "------." "You're still speaking Hungarian!" "-----------------." "That must mean yes. In Hungarian, it's only the complicated thoughts that are short." She shrugged, and headed out of the kitchen. Oliver watched her leave. He found himself feeling sorry for her. She was his wife; and he did love her. Despite all that she had done to her. ("But who doesn't do things to me?" he heard his own thoughts as if he were talking to himself.) Oliver dropped the shirt into the sink, and, wiping his hands on the dishcloth first, followed her. She was definitely moping around in a way that didn't seem staged to him. ("But how much can I trust my judgment? Ever since I moved to this farm, my instincts have been wrong!") She plopped down ("Lisa plop!?!" he heard himself be surprised) on the faux. Down my torso her fingers traveled, further and further, then, to my disappointment, stopping at the waistband of the slacks. Instead, those small fingers lifted the shirt out of the waistband and began working their way back up my front, unfastening each button along the way to reveal the thin t-shirt underneath. For a moment, I thought of how the roles had turned. Often, I was the one who stood behind, first gently teasing her as I pressed myself against her backside, then slowly and lovingly undressing her. But now, she stood behind me, nudging me to bend slightly forward so she could remove first the shirt, then the t-shirt from my torso. Topless, I turned around as the clothing was banished to the floor, and took my beautiful wife into my arms. Our lips met, and I could feel the film of red transferring itself from her lips onto mine. Julie whimpered softly into my mouth, her body seeming to melt as the kiss lingered, then finally resting her ear against my chest when the kiss.
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