“Cabanela,” said Alma, waving her hand in front of the man’s eyes to try and break his reverie. Get him back to Earth to get something done. This picnic at the park, perhaps, someone would have to lay out the spread eventually. “We’ve been together for three years.”
“So we have, baby, so we haaave…” He grabbed her hand and sneaked a yearning, tender kiss on her knuckles, but, with the poise and chutzpah of your average chicken, in doing so he did not move his head by an inch and kept his eyes firmly trained on the spectacle underway next to the nearest tree. Jowd was doing some warm-ups, lunging and flexing with athletic elegance, in perfect control of his body, its strength, its volume in space. With perfect willingness to put on a little show, too, knowing his audience, lingering on a deep, slow stretch.
“But, see: either some part of me remembers I’ve been wantin’ this for a decade twice over and change, and by now it’s set as deep within my bones as anything ever wiiill...”
Jowd took his shirt off. The sun gleamed on his muscles. Cabanela clapped.
“...or your husband really is that hot.”