Phone conversation with Paul:
PAUL: Why are you whispering?
ME: Because I’m hiding in my bathroom and I don’t want him to hear me. Do you think my tub is cast iron? (I climb in – fully clothed)… Better?
PAUL: I don’t know what I’m suppose to be comparing it to – sounds the same.
ME: (closing the shower curtain) Now?
ME: How ’bout now? (lying down in tub)
PAUL. Same, but with reverb. You need to stop with the whole cat thing – it’s border line psycho. I know you think he understands what you are saying, but Italian is his first language, followed by German, Russian and then English. Things get lost in translation, that’s why you need to leave the TV on when you go out and don’t start spelling stuff. He can read.
ME: HE’S HERE!
PAUL: Who? The creepy repair man? How many times do I have to tell you that vacuuming in heels and lingerie, channeling your inner Maggie The Cat*, is weird. People will ask you about it.
(*Some people dress as their favorite superhero, I prefer to dress as my favorite damaged Tennessee Williams’ character – alternating with Alfred Hitchcock’s icy blondes.)
ME: Nooooooo. Six-Feet-of-Shoulders is here. In. My. Bed.
ME: Shuuuuuuushhh…he’ll hear you.
PAUL: Why the fuck are you on the phone with me and why isn’t he inside of you?
ME: If an Incubus was in your bed – you’d better call me too.
ME: I’m not dreaming am I? Like Inception but with you, me, the Incubus that is a sleeping Six-Feet-of-Shoulders and a bathtub? Tell me something I don’t know so I know this isn’t a dream.
PAUL: How am I suppose to know what you know and what you don’t know?
ME: Tell me something I don’t know about you that only you know and then I’ll say it back when you come over.
PAUL: I woke up this morning being spooned by Wentworth Miller, it wasn’t until I reached back to grab his ass that I realized it was just a pillow.
ME: You thought Wentworth Miller would fit in your twin bed?
PAUL: I thought he was the pillow!
ME: Maybe obsessively watching old episodes of Prison Break on Netflix does more harm than good; it’s why I limit my consumption of the Jane Austen BBC stuff.
PAUL: The real problem is his name, it’s just not conducive to hot sex. Like am I suppose to say Oh God, Yes – give it to me Wentworth?!?! It sounds too formal and don’t even think of coming back with “Wenty” or “Mr. Miller”.
ME: What about “Baby”? It’s universal – just in case you’re thinking of someone else.
PAUL: Why would I be thinking of someone else when I have Wentworth fucking Miller in my twin bed?
ME: Maybe things have grown stale, the kids are driving you nuts, he doesn’t take out the trash unless you ask him and the guy fixing the Porsche is driving you crazy.
PAUL: You know I only drive cars that can fit a dead body in the trunk.
ME: That’s just it, it’s Wentworth’s Porsche. It’s another reason you are pissed. He’s treating you like an errand boy, not the devoted husband of 10 years, all the more reason to let the mechanic throw you up against the hood of Wenty’s Porsche and make you feel like a man.
PAUL: Do you think Wentworth Miller could love me?
ME: I don’t see how he couldn’t, although him being straight might be a complication.
PAUL: I’ve flipped the best of them.
ME: Are you gonna come over so I can find out if I am dreaming?
PAUL: What about sex with Incubus?
ME: What if it’s all in my head and I end up having sex with a ghost? I don’t think you come back from that… you get pregnant with Satan’s love child like Rosemary’s Baby or make pottery with a half naked Patrick Swayze – either way it’s not pretty.
PAUL: I have no idea what you are talking about.