I was visiting an older friend and his wife this weekend. Both of them recovering on the couch from a two-day bender. While the friend went to make some bacon sandwiches, the wife stayed under a blanket and flipped between daytime movies.
I was a few feet away on the floor, rubbing their cat’s belly.
The wife let out a slow, painful groan, “Ugh. What the hell is in a mojito anyway?”
“I think its just rum and mint. Pretty much all booze.”
“Jeez, no wonder,” she said, then propped herself onto an elbow. The covers dropped and she was wearing a loose tank top. Glittered, sequined and reeking like a tavern floor.
The bacon popped in the kitchen.
"I think I had about ten of those damn things,” she said, unwrapping a fresh pack of cigarettes.
As she reached for the lighter on the coffee table, a strap fell, exposing her breast. Not a little cleavage. Not a glimpse of areola. The full tit, hanging out in all its glory. Or as much glory as a deflated, aged breast can have.
I quickly put my eyes down and rubbed the cat, figuring she’d cover herself up and save us both the embarrassment.
“You want one of these?” she asked.
Man, I hope she meant cigarettes…
I looked up to see her offering me the pack, tit still exposed.
I took the stick, lit it, and tried to stare at the TV. But damn, I was still a man, and a voyeuristic one at that. So I glanced back.
She was taking a drag with her eyes closed. And that tit was there, hanging loose and wide and open. Though it had lost its vitality, it was still sexy enough to make my loins flicker.
The bacon crackled. My eyes went back to the television. We small-talked about the 1970’s cop movie — its wacka-wacka music, turtle necks and brown leather jackets.
I reached to the coffee table and peppered into the tray, peeking at her through my peripheral.
She was scratching the skin above the open breast. Her broken nail picking at a mole or zit or some other spot you get after 50.
Did she know it was out? Was this giving her some power? Some confidence? Some affirmation?
I took another drag.
Was she still drunk? Did she want me to look? To taste? To touch? Or was this my own youthful ego playing out an innocent mistake?
The frying pan became quiet and I heard a knife in a glass jar. My friend would be back on the couch soon enough. I decided not to look again.
“I had a car like that,” the wife said, as the TV cop chased someone in a Morgan convertible.
“Yeah, and guess who paid for it,” my friend said, returning with a plate of BLT’s, one of his fingers latched into the empty rung of a six-pack, beers dangling. He fell into the couch. I stayed on the TV, waiting for his reaction…
“Want one?” he asked.
Man, I hope he meant beer…
I slowly turned my head. The tit was back in its place behind that thin black fabric.
“Yeah,” I said, snapping a beer from the rung. I downed half in one breath.
Sirens wailed. Tires screeched. TV gun fire. Lips smacking over fat and lettuce and tomato.
“Care for a sandwich?” the wife asked, mouth full.
“No, no thank you.”
Then wiping the corner of my mouth, I said, “You got some mayo right there.”