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Authors: Sue Margolis
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He was cradling the usual stack of Sunday newspapers—broadsheets for him, tabloids for me. These days I made no apologies for watching How Clean Is Your House? , buying CDs with titles like Classical Music for Your Family Road Trip and reading the tabloids. By the time I got home after a day in court, or hours spent reading up on case law or legal precedent, I was desperate for an easy-listening, watching or reading fix.
Whereas I read trashy thrillers to get me to sleep, Josh would choose a tome from his nightstand, which was piled high with books on quantum physics, string theory and postmodernist philosophy.
I especially looked forward to the Sunday tabloids. It was like getting my comics when I was a kid. I lapped up the headlines: SINGING NUN IN DRUG SUICIDE PACT . . . PEDO, GAY, LEFT-WING TRANSSEXUALS TAKING BRITISH JOBS . . . I FOUND FACE OF JESUS ON MY POP-TART. I knew my tabloid habit annoyed Josh. So much so that if we were expecting people for dinner, he would do a thorough sweep of the flat looking for stray copies of the News of the World .
“They’re all boned,” he said, meaning he had gone through the papers and removed those annoying, loose bits of advertising. He let go of the pile. It landed beside me with a thud. A couple of glossy magazine supplements slid off the bedspread onto the floor.
“You are good,” I said, reaching down to pick up the Sunday Times Style section.
“I know. That’s why you keep me. Tea or coffee? And I’m making Marmite toast.”
“I’d rather have sex,” I said. Fully awake now, I appeared to have an urgent case of lady wood. I started giving him come-to-bed eyes, but as come-to-bed eyes went, I doubted they were my best, since I hadn’t removed yesterday’s makeup and they were probably smeared in black mascara.
He practically dived back into bed. “Your wish is my command.”
I started laughing. “Idiot.”
Before you could say IUD, he was tugging at my pajama bottoms.
Josh had been feeling particularly upbeat, not to say frisky, all weekend. One of his leukemia patients, an eight-year-old boy who had caused him much anxiety after his first bonemarrow transplant failed, had undergone a second and finally been given the all clear.
Josh lifted up my top and started kissing my breasts. I reached inside his boxers. “Wow.”
“Josh Eisner—human broomstick—at your service.”
He couldn’t have been inside me more than twenty seconds when the phone trilled. We carried on for three or four rings. Finally Josh rolled off me. He lay on his back, forearm over his eyes. “It’ll be your nana. We’ve told her we don’t want doves being released after the ceremony. Why can’t she let it go?”
I leaned over Josh and picked up the receiver.
“Tally, it’s me.”
“Hi, Nana. What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about this issue with the doves.”
“Doves?” Josh whispered.
I nodded.
“Bloody hell’s bells.”
“You know what?” Nana said. “I’ve come to the conclusion you’re right. The idea is a bit tacky.”
“You’ve come to the conclusion that I’m right and the idea is a bit tacky,” I repeated for Josh’s benefit.
“Thank God for that,” he muttered.
“Well, I’m glad we’re agreed,” I said to Nana.
“Me, too. Now then, my niece Janice called. Your cousin Elliot wants to sing ‘Angels’ during the ceremony. He’s such a talented boy. Lovely voice. He sings on all the cruise ships. She said he’s got a fabulous white tux he could wear.”
I repeated this aloud—emphasizing the bit about the fabulous white tux. Josh looked at me, his expression one of quiet desperation. “So now we’ve got your cousin Elliot singing as well as the Manischewitz Jewish gospel choir your mother just booked.”
“Behave,” I whispered, trying not to laugh. “It was a Jewish steel band and I put a stop to that last week.”
Josh said he was going to make tea and toast.
“You know what, Nana,” I said, “I’m not
Whereas I read trashy thrillers to get me to sleep, Josh would choose a tome from his nightstand, which was piled high with books on quantum physics, string theory and postmodernist philosophy.
I especially looked forward to the Sunday tabloids. It was like getting my comics when I was a kid. I lapped up the headlines: SINGING NUN IN DRUG SUICIDE PACT . . . PEDO, GAY, LEFT-WING TRANSSEXUALS TAKING BRITISH JOBS . . . I FOUND FACE OF JESUS ON MY POP-TART. I knew my tabloid habit annoyed Josh. So much so that if we were expecting people for dinner, he would do a thorough sweep of the flat looking for stray copies of the News of the World .
“They’re all boned,” he said, meaning he had gone through the papers and removed those annoying, loose bits of advertising. He let go of the pile. It landed beside me with a thud. A couple of glossy magazine supplements slid off the bedspread onto the floor.
“You are good,” I said, reaching down to pick up the Sunday Times Style section.
“I know. That’s why you keep me. Tea or coffee? And I’m making Marmite toast.”
“I’d rather have sex,” I said. Fully awake now, I appeared to have an urgent case of lady wood. I started giving him come-to-bed eyes, but as come-to-bed eyes went, I doubted they were my best, since I hadn’t removed yesterday’s makeup and they were probably smeared in black mascara.
He practically dived back into bed. “Your wish is my command.”
I started laughing. “Idiot.”
Before you could say IUD, he was tugging at my pajama bottoms.
Josh had been feeling particularly upbeat, not to say frisky, all weekend. One of his leukemia patients, an eight-year-old boy who had caused him much anxiety after his first bonemarrow transplant failed, had undergone a second and finally been given the all clear.
Josh lifted up my top and started kissing my breasts. I reached inside his boxers. “Wow.”
“Josh Eisner—human broomstick—at your service.”
He couldn’t have been inside me more than twenty seconds when the phone trilled. We carried on for three or four rings. Finally Josh rolled off me. He lay on his back, forearm over his eyes. “It’ll be your nana. We’ve told her we don’t want doves being released after the ceremony. Why can’t she let it go?”
I leaned over Josh and picked up the receiver.
“Tally, it’s me.”
“Hi, Nana. What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about this issue with the doves.”
“Doves?” Josh whispered.
I nodded.
“Bloody hell’s bells.”
“You know what?” Nana said. “I’ve come to the conclusion you’re right. The idea is a bit tacky.”
“You’ve come to the conclusion that I’m right and the idea is a bit tacky,” I repeated for Josh’s benefit.
“Thank God for that,” he muttered.
“Well, I’m glad we’re agreed,” I said to Nana.
“Me, too. Now then, my niece Janice called. Your cousin Elliot wants to sing ‘Angels’ during the ceremony. He’s such a talented boy. Lovely voice. He sings on all the cruise ships. She said he’s got a fabulous white tux he could wear.”
I repeated this aloud—emphasizing the bit about the fabulous white tux. Josh looked at me, his expression one of quiet desperation. “So now we’ve got your cousin Elliot singing as well as the Manischewitz Jewish gospel choir your mother just booked.”
“Behave,” I whispered, trying not to laugh. “It was a Jewish steel band and I put a stop to that last week.”
Josh said he was going to make tea and toast.
“You know what, Nana,” I said, “I’m not
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