- Even if you’re wrong
- War bride
- That was the last time I saw Jesus
I watched I Was a Male War Bride—again—the other day while George was in the shower. It’s a ridiculous piece of fluff, of course, but who can resist Cary Grant? I turned the set off when I heard the bathroom door open.
“Did you remember to wipe down the walls?” I called to him.
“I remembered to wipe down the walls.”
“Did you dry that little place by the toilet where the water collects?”
“I dried the little place by the toilet where the water collects.”
“Well, did you…” I paused to formulate the next question but he beat me to it.
“Yes,” he called as he walked down the hallway. “I wiped off the mirror. Yes, I’m carrying the towels to the hamper. No, I won’t let my hair stay wet and catch my death of cold.” He poked his head around the corner and grinned at me. After thirty years he knew me too damn well.
I got up from the couch and followed him into the bedroom, where he switched the overhead fan from Breeze to Gale and stood beneath it in all his glory, arms outstretched to let himself air dry.
“I don’t know why you do this every time,” I told him. “I can manage to get nicely dried, thank you, with a terry cloth towel and no electricity wasted at all.” I walked up to him and touched the damp skin on his back…and then touched the damp skin on his front. He stepped back with a big grin.
“Hold on, Terry,” he said. I smiled back at him.
“That’s what I was trying to do, but you keep moving.”
“Later!” He grabbed both my wrists and wrestled me gently onto the bed. Pillows tumbled in several directions and by the time I got everything out of the way, he had already slipped into shorts and was shuffling through the drawer for his least grubby T-shirt.
I gave up, as he expected. I hadn’t really anticipated any real activity, anyway. We both knew it wouldn’t be a good idea for George to show up late for his appointment. I pulled his red shirt, the one with the tailored fit, out of his side of the closet.
“Wear this one,” I told him firmly. “She won’t be able to keep her hands off you.” I gave him a knowing wink. He does look good in that shirt.
George patted me on the butt and hung the red shirt back in the closet, opting instead for a rather sedate blue stripe and a pair of Levis.
“I’m a builder, not a gigolo,” he said. “I’m supposed to be appealing to her pocketbook. From what the office tells me, she wants a full remodel from the foundation up. That’s a lot of money. I don’t want to blow it giving the wrong impression the first time I meet the old woman.”
I started to gather up his keys and notebook, things he’d need for this initial meeting.
“What makes you think she’s old?” I asked.