She was on the bed and took her nightly dose of Citalopram, 1omg, he was in the pub, about to leave and remembered he was due his dose of meds also, so he took it, detached, and walked home.
“Heya”, she said. “Hiya”, he replied. He sat down with his back to her, rain droplets on his back drooling onto the duvet causing there to be flecks of wet on the bed. He took off his jacket and his jeans and sat in his boxers and shirt outside the duvet on the bed beside her, staring at the ceiling. He plugged his I-pad in to charge as it was at 37 percent.
She was curled up towards him, in her pink silken nightie, her feet were cold and her eyes felt heavy. She slowly reached her hand towards his balls and began massaging them. Nothing. “How much did you have to drink?”, she asked him. “Ah few”, he replied. She coiled over on the other side of the bed and stared out onto the Liffey, the moonbeams glimmering on the cold December water. She could hear some girls shrieking and laughing from the quays down below.
Using both hands he turned her over and began groping and kissing her, taking her by surprise. She was wet, he could feel, but her body moved perfunctorily, and it sorta killed the mood. He could barely muster an erection and she quickly dried up. After several minutes of sad, listless penetration they stopped. He went to the balcony and smoked his pipe.
She was watching Netflix. He fell asleep first.