You Have Something on Your…

I let myself in.
He was in the kitchen frying bacon and she was on the couch flipping between daytime movies — both of them recovering from our two-day bender. They were twenty years my elder and had outgrown their liquor.
I took a seat on the floor and rubbed 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.”
“No wonder,” she sighed, propping herself on an elbow to unwrap a fresh pack of cigarettes. She was still wearing the loose tank top from last night. Glittered and sequined and smelling like torture. “What’d I have, about five of those damn things?”
“I’m guessing ten.”
She reached for her lighter and one strap fell, exposing a breast. Not a little cleavage. Not a glimpse of areola. The full tit, hanging out in all its glory. Or as much glory as an empty breast can have.
I put my eyes down and scratched the cat, figuring she’d cover herself up and save us both the embarrassment.
“You want one?” she asked.
Man, I hope she meant cigarettes…
I swallowed. Then slowly looked up. She was offering me a smoke. Tit still exposed.
I took it, lit it, and tried to stare at the TV, but my eyes kept wandering.
She took a deep drag with her head tipped back. And the tit was there, hanging loose and wide and open. Though it had lost its vitality, it still made my loins flicker.
Bacon popped and crackled in the kitchen.
She exhaled. My eyes went back to the television. We small-talked about the 1970’s cop movie — its wacka-wacka music, turtlenecks and brown leather jackets.
I reached to the coffee table and peppered into the ashtray, taking a peek as I did. She was scratching the skin above her naked breast. The broken nail picking at a mole or zit or some other spot you get after you reach Fifty.
I wondered: Did she want me to look? To touch? To taste? Or was this my own ego playing out an innocent mistake? Whatever it was, it wasn’t like some displaced hair or piece of broccoli in her teeth.
The frying pan went quiet in the kitchen. And I heard a knife clanking in a glass jar.
I scooted closer to the television.
“I had a car like that,” the woman said as the TV cop car chased an old mini-convertible.
“Yeah–” the husband said, coming into the room, “–and guess who paid for it?!”
He was carrying a plate of BLTs. One of his fingers latched through the rung of a six-pack. He fell into the couch. I put my eyes on the TV, waiting for him to see the exhibition.
“So, you want one, Maine?” he asked.
Man, I hope he meant beer…
I turned my head – slowly again – and caught a glimpse.
The tit was back in its place. Safely behind that thin black fabric.
“Yeah, I’ll have one,” I smiled, snapping a beer from the rung. It was nearly gone in one gulp.
My eyes watered. I heard sirens wail. Tires screech. TV gunshots. And lips smacking over bacon and lettuce and tomato.
“Care for a sandwich?” the wife asked with her mouth full.
“No, no thank you.”
Then, pointing to the corner of my mouth, I told her, “You got some mayo right there.”