For Spacedmonkey II...
I sat on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror, about to remonstrate with my hair which was freshly washed and currently dripping down my back.
SH looked up at me. “Ah, the mystery of the ringlets revealed,” he commented languidly. He was lying on the bed reading a book with a green cloth cover - he’d been shouting comments to me whilst I was in the shower but I hadn’t heard a word of it so had no idea as to the subject.
“No, mysteries are for the Mystery of Edwin Drood or the Mystery of the Locked Room. You can’t have ‘the mystery of Corvid’s feathers.’”
“I fail to see why not. Besides, don’t women enjoy cultivating a little mystery?”
There was a certain teasing in his tone. I gave him a sideways look as I stabbed in another hairpin. “Dear god, are you flirting with me?”
“I thought somebody should,” he said simply.
My mouth opened and closed several times.
“It might help siphon off those excesses of hysteria you’re so prone to.”
I gave him a scandalized look followed by a virulent one. “You’re utterly infuriating. And please don’t pretend to me that you believe for a minute in all that female hysteria thing being solved by having a shag. For kerristsake, when you run around mental I bet no one suggests you should go have a wank!”
“…Wenk? Isn’t that Dutch for ‘clue’?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“A - … a…” I struggled to remember more historical terminology. “I mean indulge in Onanism!”
“Ah.”
“I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with you - how the hell did this happen?”
“I was put on a train,” he remarked mildly.
“I’m going downstairs,” I informed him. “And if there isn’t a bottle of wine open I’m opening one.”
He grinned and snapped the book shut. “Capital!”
SH looked up at me. “Ah, the mystery of the ringlets revealed,” he commented languidly. He was lying on the bed reading a book with a green cloth cover - he’d been shouting comments to me whilst I was in the shower but I hadn’t heard a word of it so had no idea as to the subject.
“No, mysteries are for the Mystery of Edwin Drood or the Mystery of the Locked Room. You can’t have ‘the mystery of Corvid’s feathers.’”
“I fail to see why not. Besides, don’t women enjoy cultivating a little mystery?”
There was a certain teasing in his tone. I gave him a sideways look as I stabbed in another hairpin. “Dear god, are you flirting with me?”
“I thought somebody should,” he said simply.
My mouth opened and closed several times.
“It might help siphon off those excesses of hysteria you’re so prone to.”
I gave him a scandalized look followed by a virulent one. “You’re utterly infuriating. And please don’t pretend to me that you believe for a minute in all that female hysteria thing being solved by having a shag. For kerristsake, when you run around mental I bet no one suggests you should go have a wank!”
“…Wenk? Isn’t that Dutch for ‘clue’?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“A - … a…” I struggled to remember more historical terminology. “I mean indulge in Onanism!”
“Ah.”
“I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with you - how the hell did this happen?”
“I was put on a train,” he remarked mildly.
“I’m going downstairs,” I informed him. “And if there isn’t a bottle of wine open I’m opening one.”
He grinned and snapped the book shut. “Capital!”