She opens it for him, and he growls at her to stop locking him out when he is gardening; he leaves it unlocked for a reason.

The woman is getting tired of this particular topic and instead of apologizing snaps crisply that she has no memory of locking it, and indeed she hasn’t. The house just wanted a few more precious moments alone with her.

He stomps back outside, and she carefully checks that it is unlocked, even while muttering against the man under her breath.

The door handle is sure it isn’t his imagination that her hand lingers on the brass.

The man has tracked mud on the kitchen floor, who nearly faints with joy when she notices. She looks closer at the cracked and peeling linoleum and forgoes the mop for a rag and brush. She mutters about how disgusting the floor is—how utterly, utterly filthy, as her nail digs at an especially difficult spot. Yes yes yes, squeaks the floor—who, like the braided cord over the washer, likes it rough.

Afterward, she heads up the stairs (which groan loudly at the feel of her toes) to take her shower.

Despite its lascivious reputation, the shower couldn’t care less about the woman, even as he rains fat droplets down her breasts. The bathtub, the sole dissenter in the house, yearns for the muscular fleshy rump of the man. He hasn’t felt it in ages, as it is summer and not time for long, hot baths.

The man, cursing, fumbles with the kitchen door and has to find his key with dirt-encrusted fingers deep in his pockets. He steps inside, notices the floor has been washed, and carefully removes his shoes, muttering that she’ll probably want to be thanked now that she’s done her annual unprompted housecleaning chore—then peers suspiciously down the stairs to be sure she hasn’t left a light on in the basement again.

The midsummer sky is growing dim as he showers, unwittingly spurning the tub so far below, while the woman brushes her teeth.

The orgiastic moaning of the toothbrush annoys the towel incredibly, because after all who is it that gets to cradle her every last curve rubbing rubbing rubbing and then contentedly wrap herself around the woman’s breast and hips for a little postpleasure snuggling?

It is too hot for even a tank top, and the woman lies flat on the sheet, staring up into the dark, and wonders how long it has been like this. Just today? All year? She hasn’t felt so awkward, angry, unlovable, and unloving since junior high. She feels flabby, flatchested, gray, and wrinkled besides.

The man, annoyed as he is with the woman, sees the curve of her thigh in the light from the window and slides in next to her, giving it a tentative caress.