1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3
A man and woman in their late thirties early forties, one sits on the toilet, another the bath’s edge, backs turned. The end of an argument? The man sits in a white vest and blue shorts, the woman a black nightdress. For ten seconds their bodies remain still, no fidgeting or shuffling. The man moves his lips, mumbling. Perhaps the woman is speaking? “Yeah. Hmm. Yeah,” the man seems to be saying. He gazes into the street, his look one of profound boredom. Is she going on too long? Her head bobs, she turns around.
The woman is beautiful. Wide, passionate eyes and hair like flowing magma. The man is, frankly, lucky to have her. She twirls her knees out the bath, shuffles along the tiles and rubs the man’s shoulders. The man resists her touch then loosens up and turns to her. If this were TV, he might be saying: “I know, honey, it’s just so-and-so.” Or: “I’m scared, baby, scared about such-and-such.” The woman’s long fingers knead his bony shoulders like cooking dough, swaying gently as they lapse into silence.