He made love to them through her, or mostly. Or maybe. Or not exactly. Or it all got convoluted and mixed up. The initial desire, which was almost always there at his age was from them. That was all he thought about while he showered, that was the image in his mind. It was a good image, a fun image, a picture he could reinforce with what he’d actually seen of them in real life. Dog that he was, he knew what Rosie felt like inside and out. That was a whole other matter and a good one too.
He took his beer in the shower with him, kept it on the edge of the bathtub and away from the water spray. He drank from the bottle, put it back down. He washed himself meticulously, thoroughly, two complete times, and then little by little he turned the water hotter and hotter and stood in it, languished in it. He stayed in the water until he finished his beer and then he shut the water and stepped out of the tub.
After he’d dried himself, Bill brushed and flossed his teeth. He stood naked looking at his teeth in the mirror. When he was satisfied, he grabbed up his beer bottle and returned it to the kitchen.
He was already roused when he slid in under the covers in his spot. Lots of times when he slid in next to her he was desirous of her, but usually he did not disturb her in her sleep. Tonight he was undecided about what he was going to do. He had a need and he and he wanted to satisfy it. Tomorrow was Sunday. She could sleep in if she wanted. He lay in the dark next to her, quiet, still.
Most nights when he slid into bed she knew he was there. She would move close to him, press herself against him not in a sexual way but in an intimate way. Without words, in her action she was saying she wanted to be close. He usually responded in kind, moved to her, fixed it so that he was holding her or spooning her. Sometimes she turned on her side before moving up to him, let him know she wanted to be spooned. That’s what she did this night. She turned on her side and pressed up against him so that he turned on his side and met her.
It was easy then because she could feel his desire pushing against her. He knew this because she shifted, adjusted herself to settle him in a more intimate spot. She uttered a soft “Mmm.”
“Mmm is right,” he said. He pressed her harder and found she responded in kind.
“You awake?” he asked. As he asked, he reached under the blanket and gently spread her legs.
“Depends,” she said. She helped him by moving freely with his hand.
“On what?”
“On whether it’s worth my while.”
He leaned in and kissed her on the neck in just the place she loved it, that place that drove her crazy. “That give you an idea?”
“Oh, I got the idea,” she said. She turned to face him and then they both lay on their sides facing each other. “Tired?” she asked.
He said, “Yeah. First time since I started this job.”
“Poor boy,” she said. “Maybe I ought to do the work.”
“Maybe you ought to,” he said.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “Tell me what work you want me to do.”
For him, for Bill Wynn, for who he was, this was a hard thing to do. He was raised and taught to not put himself first, to put others first and make sure they were taken care of. So he had to bite the bullet in a sense. He had to fight the instinct to tell her to tell him what she wanted and to go on and please himself.
And this he did.
