Recapitulation

Something I should have done a long time ago. Not sure if I'd like to add more yet, but you get the idea.

On a mahogany wooden frame sits a futon mattress with gray jersey sheets and a goose down comforter shoved to the end of the bed. Two human beings are lying next to each other. One just so happens to be a man and one just so happens to be a woman; although she's more of a man and he's more of a woman than the other could ever be.
    She is on her back staring at the popcorn ceiling wearing a maroon spaghetti strap tank top with a hole where the washing instructions used to be, yellow underwear with white polka dots and bright pink edges, and brown, white and black knit socks that used to belong to her ex (her favorite pair). On the night stand next to her sits a lit lamp (painted red to match the rotary telephone), an ash tray he made her out of a piece of driftwood with four butts and six roaches in the conch shell that he broke apart and hot glued to the pitted wood. Also, a pouch of tobacco, filters, Zig-Zag rolling papers (of the orange kind) and one hand rolled cigarette.
    He, too, is on his back head turned to the left staring at the fake wood paneling that occupies only that singular wall. He is wearing a braided leather bracelet hand crafted for him by her--gray, green, and brown. He is also wearing gray boxer briefs with a stain on the upper part of the left thigh. Coffee. Next to him on the floor sits a clock radio he bought on sale (70% off) at Home Goods, the red rotary telephone and a stack of various books and papers containing things written by Foer, Robbins, himself, Bukowski and the like.
    He sits up and gets out of bed--left leg then right. He walks the three steps to the end of the bed and asks her if she'd like a glass of wine. She leans up to look at the digital clock in the right corner of the bedroom and sees that it's only eleven fifty-seven A.M. The though of argument races through her mind, but disregards it and agrees as long as it's Pinot Grisio. He can sense all of this by just looking at her face. She doesn't hide things well. She lays back down but this time closes her eyes and imagines his actions narrated by his clumsy hands, legs and shoulders. The fourteen steps to the kitchen, reaching his right hand up to open the cabinet door--it creaks. He pulls out two mugs (she knows this only because she knows him and he knows she only uses mugs for anything liquid--or solid). One extended step to the refrigerator. He leans and pulls and the suction of the door to appliance un-sucks. The condiments rattle. Fingering for the bottle he moves the ginger ale, wheat beer and homemade soup. She hears the bottom of the wine bottle drag across the encrusted shelf (liquid lettuce, mold, saucy spills) and he bangs it on the counter. Lifting it up one and three quarter centimeters higher he clears the counter and the bottle is placed upon it. Pop goes the cork and he fills the mugs. She is certain he is using the mugs at this point--her favorite pair her mother made her. The splash and flow of white wine takes far too long and would overflow any other cup he or she owns. He fills it to the crack that lies a few millimeters from the rim. Dribble dribble splash. The next mug. Once both are vessels are full the clank of glass to Formica, porcelain, plastic and glass recurs like a song on rewind. The door sucks back to the appliance and he stands up right, grabs the two mugs and walks the fourteen steps back. He leans over his side of the bed and hands her a mug of wine--her eyes still closed. She knows what to expect. It spills on her skin a little where the maroon tank top and yellow polka dot underwear depart. He wipes it off for her and she licks it off for him. She edges her back against the cold cream colored walls and sits up to take a delicate sip while he gets back into bed and leans against the same cream colored wall. She rises and settles with the movements of the futon mattress as he adjusts himself to a comfortable position. They sit in bed for a few moments and sip. She slides the driftwood ash tray to make room for her mug and slides down the wall a little. She looks at his chest rise and fall with inhalation and exhalation. He looks down as she moves her glance up to meet each others eyes. Hers blue and his hazel. He leans down to the left and places his mug on Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. He slides down and their bodies move simultaneously to face each other--she on her left hip and shoulder, he on his right hip and shoulder. He kisses her forehead and turns to lie on his back, and she moves her head into his armpit, closes her eyes and breathes in that familiar scent. She drags her smooth right leg up against his course hair so that her knee is resting gently upon his. They lay there in that moment. To her it feels something like and eternity and to him an eternity and a half. She nuzzles her nose deeper into his flesh and bites at his rib cage. He holds her closer. He tells her he has missed her teeth and she tells him she has missed his skin. He slides back down so that they're eye level. She puts her forehead to his. He kisses her and she kisses him and he rubs her back. She smiles a little only because she can never take moments like this seriously and bites his lower lip while he thinks about how long it has been since he has felt this way with her and how much he has craved this moment and needed it. He shifts his body slowly so that he is again on his left hip and shoulder and slips his right leg between her soft thighs. They pause and look at each other from the distance even a fruit fly wouldn't want to interrupt. She smiles still because his eyes have morphed into one. Noticing the way the bottom lid of of her eye curved up he can't help but smile and revel and sigh. She kisses his nose, they way she first did when she was too afraid to kiss on the lips but moves her right hand down his smooth back, over his birthmark, to the curve of his hip that even men have. His hand ebbs and flows under the maroon spaghetti strap tank top and he pulls her warm body in closer. His heart is racing with the pulse of memories once forgotten. As does hers. She slides her left hand between the gray jersey sheets and the same curve opposite her right hand, pulls him toward and over her. He rubs up against her, like most men do, but stops and lays his head on her chest. He listens closely through the creaking floor upstairs and April showers to the rhythm of her existence. It reminds him of a song she used to sing and he hums a little. She breathes in that quivering breath most women take before exhaling tears but doesn't let one drop. She holds his head in her hands, feeling the curves of his ears with the index finger of her left hand. She leans in and kisses his left temple and begins to hum the song.