Cleaning Up, Dirty

Demeter “Dirt” cologne $20, DemeterFragrance.com

“I am so dirty.” says The Boy, sweat patterning his plain T-shirt, a smudge of mud coloring his cheek.

“Not as dirty as me.” I brush a speck silvery eye shadow from my black wool, drop-waist coat, my eyes touch the tips of my virgin white peep-toe stilettos, I check my brushed-on, school-girl blush in a gilt mirror while The Boy’s looking away.

“I was in the garden,” he says, voice muffled as he drags off his shirt. “I dug up a lily for my neighbor this morning.”

“I bought a five-dollar soy latte for myself this morning,” I counter.

“That’s productive and generous of you.”

“I do what I can for the US economy,” I say. “Consumer spending is down, especially in markets that rip off upper middle-class people.” I trail The Boy into one of his bathrooms, a marble rectangle of space as large as my Los Angeles flat. As soon as he closes the glass shower door, I press my face to it. “Dance for me, baby. Once you get the water going, I want you to do this.” I rub my bra-less bust, I lick my polished lips, I wink, lids lowered with layers of mascara.

He turns the water on, and the shining wet slicks down his chest, beading in his hairs, highlighting bones and lean muscle.

“Now work your Christmas package like a UPS man,” I say, my fists bouncing against the glass. “Only with some feeling. It’s the holidays, god-dammit.”

The Boy swings his hips for me, he unhooks the corded, chrome shower head and mimes singing into it. Then he goes back to sudsing his body, foams pure function and no finesse.

“Keep dancing!” I command. “The glass steamed up, wipe it off so I can watch.” My body’s pressed against the glass door as he points the shower head at it; the water rolls down my vanilla chiffon dress, only spotting it with shadows. “That’s right, get me wet, baby.”

“I should start charging you for this show,” says The Boy. “Why is it always just sex, just my body with you?”

“That’s all you’ve got going for you.” I finger one of his monogrammed towels, hanging from a silver-plated pole. “You think you’re smart? Mr. Reading The Wall St. Journal Since You Were Nine? Mr. Making Millions With Your Mind?” I toss a dollar bill over the glass door, but the steam makes the paper float back to me, brushing against my chest. “Please, baby. I write about overpriced shoes for a living. I know genius when I see it. And genius is your humping that wall for me.”

He swirls his hips against the swirled, caramel marble walls.

“Oh, yeah!” I push my powdered nose into the glass. “You’re a nice piece of meat, kid.”

“Do you ever hear me talking to you like this?” asks The Boy, turning to grin at me through the glass.

“No, but you should start,” I say. “I get offended sometimes, thinking you only want me for my brain.”

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