She was occupying the bathroom. He needed to shit or puke… one or the other, or both. He giggled, he couldn’t wait for her to get out because he wanted to see her, but he also needed to shit, to puke, to piss, to clean his face and go ‘aaah.’
He was drunk, and so was she. She sang something badly – a song from their first days, something corny. They said they would be like Bonnie and Clyde. Now they kinda were.
He stared at their pathetic haul on the coffee table: bubblegum, lollipops, condoms (for laughs), cereal bars (for our enduring health), a magazine. He couldn’t believe their robbery had worked – her just picking the items into the bag at random, him guarding her with his fat belly.
She unlocked the bathroom, and was naked under the bathrobe. He said ‘Oh thank Christ!’ and he wasn’t sure for what, the bathroom or her flesh – which he hadn’t seen in years, and which looked much the same in the dim lights – but he had to rush to the bathroom all the same, and he did: sprinting comically past her, his potato sack of a belly swinging. She moved out the way as discreetly as she could, smiling sweetly, and heard him lock the door.
Hearing him puke, she spoke dirty to him, like she wouldn’t dare when they were younger, when desperation was not an option. She heard hints of arousal through the gurgling, those low groans she knew so well.
She told him she would be ready whenever he was. She sat on the armchair and picked up a lollipop, unpacking it slowly.
She was almost finished by the time he had emerged from the bathroom and, caressing her hands from behind, found that her pulse had gone.