Page 45 of Caught in a Storm
She’s mostly covered by his comforter. If she was wearing makeup before, she wiped it off before bed, and she’s not lit—professionally or otherwise. “I like this, though,” he says. “Very much.”
She shows him the inside of her arm. “My tattoos are faded.”
“They look great.”
“And I’m shorter than I was,” she says.
“Really?”
“I was five-three forever. I had a physical a few months ago. Five-two-and-a-half. I made them measure me three times. Has that not happened to you?”
“I haven’t checked,” he says. “I’m probably shorter, too, so maybe it evens out.”
Margot pushes the comforter down, just below her knees. “I haven’t had my clothes off in front of someone in—”
“I have my mom’s legs,” Billy says.
“Your mom’s legs?”
“Yeah,” he says. “From the waist up, I’m normal looking, right? But my mom’s got these stumpy little legs. I got them from her. I’ve always been sensitive about them. See?”
“They are kinda short,” she says. “Not bad, though.”
“Thanks.”
“I get it,” she says. “I got my mom’s ankles?”
“Really? Let’s see.”
Margot kicks the comforter down to the foot of the bed. She pulls the left hem of her lounging pants up and rolls her foot at the ankle. “See? Thick, right? That’s why I always wear boots. They’re kick-ass, obviously. But cankle camouflage, too.”
“Stop it,” he says. “They’re lovely.”
When she puts her leg back down, she rests it on his, and it’s warm beneath the loungy fabric. “What else is wrong with you?” she asks.
“My hair is thinning.”
She squints at his forehead. “It doesn’t look like—”
“No, not there.” He shows her the crown of his head, and she runs her hand over it.
“Okay, yeah, a little.”
“The lady that cuts it says she can hide it for a few more years. All bets are off after that, though.”
“I find grays sometimes,” she says. “I just yank the fuckers.”
He goes to her hip again, pulls her closer. “Don’t even get me started on my stomach,” he says. “My twenties, it was good. Thirties, decent. I even had one of those V things for a while. Now it’s more of a U. I have a U-shaped stomach.”
Margot smiles, and Billy wants to kiss her again. He will soon, he’s nearly certain, but for now he’s enjoying this part. This is foreplay in your forties: pointing out all the things you don’t like about yourself and just going with it. She rolls onto her back and slides her T-shirt up, revealing the pale skin from the bottom of her ribs to the waistband of her pants. “Mine’s held up pretty well,” she says. “I actually still kind of like it.”
Billy swallows and then touches her there. She sighs, a sound like hmm, that he could listen to all night.
“How long has it been since I said we should wait?” she asks.
Billy consults his digital alarm clock, which is among the only electrical devices in his apartment that are still plugged in. “About an hour and a half.”
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s long enough.”
