Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Didn't want to pitch it out...

Amy woke slowly, letting light filter in through the sticky stuff caught in her lashes. “I’m sick.”

Tris stood silhouetted against the window, his face in shadow. “You drank from my bottle. I told you not to.”

“Tasted nasty.”

“It’s punishment.” He lifted a squat brown bottle to his lips. “Not pleasure.”

She pushed up on her elbows, stomach roiling. “Haven’t you punished yourself enough?”

He shot her a sardonic look. “There’s always more wine.”

“I can’t remember much about last night. Did we...get married?” She frowned at the look in his cold black eyes. “I’m serious! I remember Elvis all dressed up in black with a rhinestone clerical collar and Vegas--“

“We followed Rafe.”

“But him and Jasey. And we--“ She rubbed her eyes. “That man is so dead.”

The bathroom door opened on a very big, very naked Italian trying to smoke a soggy black cheerot. “Volare,” he sang in a high falsetto. “Oh, oh...per dio! Still can’t remember.”

He chomped down, lost in thought, and opened another of the familiar brown bottles. “T--man, next time you’re in Tunisia bring me back a crate of--“ he lifted the bottle and squinted at it owlishly, “of date wine.”

“My wife,” he stopped to roll the word over his tongue, “my wife likes it.”

A short woman all dressed down in a teddy-bear t-shirt tried to pull him back into the bathroom. “You’re naked, Raphael.”

Rafe blinked down at himself. “And ready for action, cara.”

Jasey stepped in front of him. “Tris, this doesn’t impact the work we do for Seth. Why don’t you--pinch me again, Caravaggio, and I’ll kneecap you! I don’t care if you are my husband. Why don’t the two of you get something to eat?”

The door closed with a final snap.

Amy huddled over on herself, hands down on her belly. “Why are you here, Tristan?”

Tris flung the bottle away and turned his back on her, staring out into the bright Vegas day. “Don’t ask me questions, Amy. I have no answers.”

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