Spoons

"Spoons," he says, "we're always short of spoons."

His hands swirl bubbles furiously about in hot soapy water, the dirty cutlery making music in the stainless basin. Muscles flex through his grey t-shirt and his jeans hangs low, skimming the floor, his feet bare.

I stand watching from the doorway, amused by his aggravation, slightly turned on by the sight of him in front of the sink doing dishes.

"Dishwasher, no?"

"No," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder, "I was just making Hot Chocolate for us, a quick one before bed."

"Company?" I ask, too lazy to form complete sentences, already in another world.

"I won't be long, you get into bed, I'll finish up here."

I traipse off to the bedroom, the rubber soles of my fluffy slippers dragging on the wooden floors. I sigh deeply, today was good: long and lazy, slow and sublime.

I climb into bed, it's still warm. The blankets are rumpled.

I jump out again - straighten - pull - tuck white linens, grab handfuls of scatter cushions making space...

The banging in the kitchen comes to a stop.

The lights are switched off.

He comes in carrying giant mugs.

"Careful it's hot!" he warns.

"Oh yes it is," I say teasing, but he doesn't pick up on the banter.

I hold the hot mug to my lips, look at him over the rim, making sipping sounds.

"I think I'll have a quick shower while it's getting cold."

He grabs a towel from the cupboard, in one swift movement discards his belt and unbuttons his jeans, I look on, wishing he'd turn around.

He doesn't.

I sit there, restless, on edge, dying to get going.

I get up, check to see if I have everything ready.

It sits on the pedestal, sleek black, waiting to be handled.

I get back in, wiggle about, finding the best position.

I tug at my flimsy nightie.

"Nope, not right."

I shrug it off, opt for something more comfortable.

"Yeah, that's it."

I wriggle my fingers, snap cricks out of my neck and arch my back.

I hear the shower turn off, bathroom sounds seizes and he walks into the room, white towel slung low on hips, hair still damp.

"You ready?" he asks trying to lock me on.

"Game on!" I say, flicking on the TV.

The light casts shadows in the room playing on a caramel canvas.

He grabs drawstring pj's and jumps in reaching forward, downing hot chocolate in one gulp. He looks at me, a wicked smile spreading across his face, his eyes glinting steel.

"Let's play!" he commands, and I listen, here he is the leader, and I am happy to follow.

I reach for the controller, thumbs geared for action, fingers at the ready.

Press Play...

The bedroom becomes a play station, and we, the characters at play...

My mother always said : "A couple that plays together, stays together."

My eye catches the multitude of scatter cushions scattered ridiculously about, "Hmmm, a good ole pillow fight." I make a mental note to stack all the heavy one's on my side.

"Baby's going down," I stifle an evil laugh, eyeing my unsuspecting playmate.

Much later, in the dead of night, we are both spent, from doing battle, from fighting wars, from play fighting!

We make a great team, he and I.

I snuggle closer, in our playroom, two spoons together making sweet music.