“It’s arbitrary by design!” Larry tried to prove his point. Ally wasn’t that easy to persuade, though.

“No, it’s not… And besides, it’s not even supposed to go to court… The only reason it does is because solo practitioners are mean, greedy, money-sucking sharks who have a serious problem with authority and socialization and consider themselves too smart to work with those who--“ Ally suddenly stopped, realizing she’d made a generalization that had unintentionally included her husband.

Larry just sat there, nodding in sarcastic encouragement.

“Whoops. Sorry... I didn’t mean *you*…” She smiled.

“No, no, go ahead… It’s always nice to find out new things about myself…”

Ally grabbed his hand once again. “Hey…”

He couldn’t resist. Bringing her hand up to his lips, he kissed it, accidentally licking off some of the gel it was covered with.

“Ihhhhck…” he stuck out his tongue, rubbing a towel against it frantically.

“Oooh, gee, thank you…” Ally took offense at him not liking the taste of her skin.

“Itsh zeh dell…” he tried to pronounce against the towel, finally deciding to forego further rubbing for fear of damaging taste buds. “I mean, it’s says it’s *peach*… you could at least expect it to *taste* peachy…”

“Their primary concern in the industry isn’t someone licking it off…”“Well, they should be prepared for unexpected situations!”

”How would this affect them, exactly?”

“I could sue them!” Larry started up again. Ally rolled her eyes.

“For what? Negligent infliction of taste bud distress?!”

“There’s a case in Alabama right now--“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever… Like the granny who sued McDonald’s…”

“I, actually, believe there was basis--“

“And she got a solid check as well--“

“Which would pay off our eleven choices of PETA salads!” Larry was thrilled with the way the discussion had veered back into daycare topics. Ally was less so.

“You’re no fun…” Larry whined, mock-upset with Ally’s facial expression.

“Oh, is that so?”

“I’m telling you, the model was arbitrary by design from the very beginning, so that the law--“

“Did you pass the Bar the first time?”

Larry looked at her, surprise sketched out very clearly on his face. “YES. Why?”

“Good. So did I. I got a perfect score, F-Y-I. I had that very question on there, and I answered that it wasn’t… HA.”

“I was the only one out of my CivPro class to get an A+ on the 3L Finals, and I had that question as well… I answered that it *was*. With supporting facts. Ha-HA.”

“Three-L FINALS?! CivPro?! Puh-lease… Besides, the Kaplan Bar course has a program rated highest in its class, and they taught that it *wasn’t*. AND, the CivPro Finals score is composed of 4 elements, by the way, so you very well could’ve missed 2 or 3 questions and still gotten your “A-plus”. Ha-ha-HA.”

“KapBar is the *only* program of its class, so it’s not surprising it’s rated highest…”

“Oh, you know what I mean!”

He smiled a lovely, warm, tingly smile. “Of course I do.”

Then, under his breath, he insisted on his point of view, “It’s still arbitrary...”

Ally generated a wave with her hand and sent it in his direction.

“Of course, this is just the humble, uneducated opinion of a greedy, mean, *money-sucking*… what was I, again? Piranha? Shark?” Larry continued, completely serious. Ally smirked.

“I wasn’t very far off in my description…”

“Sure you weren’t,” he assured her. “If I ever decide to write an autobiography, you’ll be my first choice for a consultant… Very straightforward, down-to-earth opinions.”

He kneeled down by the edge of the bathtub.

“You’re probably all shriveled up already… Any chance of you getting out anytime soon?”

“No.” Ally smiled and continued the skin cleansing her body was undergoing. Larry just helplessly hung his head in despair. What was he to do, really?

(Half an hour later)

“Gone With The Wind.”

“Jaws.”

“*Gone With The Wind*.”

“JAWS.”

“I never knew this about you… 5 years and you never ONCE mentioned it! How can you NOT like Gone With The Wind?!” Ally was determined to get to the bottom of the source of his aversion to everything classic and romantic. And he wasn’t going to get away with the half-hearted Christmas hatred explanation he offered her last time she tried to conduct a similar investigation, no sir. This time, it would be dug into. DEEP.

“How can you NOT like Jaws?!” he seemed just as surprised.

“It’s… SCARY!”

”It’s a *classic*! It’s to movie history what, I dunno, the Dow is to stocks! The King of Kings!”

“And Gone With The Wind *isn’t*?!”

“It’s… booooring!”

“We are *so* going to delete this little mislead someone planted into your head…”

“Tomorrow night. Gone With The Jaws. Jaws With The Wind. Double viewing session.”

“Deal.” Ally agreed. They formally shook hands. Both were set on educating the other. They suspected it would inevitably end in something far off the point at hand, but that made the perspective even sweeter, really…

In a minute or two, after Larry’d had time to offer his opinion on Ally’s disgust with “Reservoir Dogs” and “Extramarital” (two “masterpieces”, by his definition -- an point of view that had Ally begging to differ, but which Larry was set on keeping…) and Ally’d been given the chance to call him a “*man*!”, scrunch up her nose and throw a soapy loofa at him, the phone rang, a sound both loathed hearing at any time, especially at times when a potentially passion-inducing argument was underway. Larry hesitantly stood up, mumbling something about how people who hated “Reservoir Dogs” should be banned from watching movies altogether, and headed towards the detested apparatus, ready to screw off the caller’s head and throw it into the dishwasher together with their saucy dinner plates. Ally, meanwhile, was left to dry herself off and apply yet another one of the 150 body lotions in her possession bottled in a pastel-coloured plastic vessel of sorts, titled just as tongue-tyingly as the other 149. After she was done, she cautiously crept down the hall past Anna’s open door, in order not to wake her up, for Lord knows what *that* would’ve brought them to. Once inside the safety of their bedroom, and alone since Larry was busy screwing off the caller’s head in the den, she wrapped herself up into a badly-matched set of undergarments, something floral a-la “grandma’s treasure chest” on the bottom and a grey Old Navy tank she believed to be Larry’s (but couldn’t be quite sure, their at-home wardrobes often intersected) on top. Oh, who cares, she wasn’t modeling for an underwear ad. Plus, the tank from an unverified source just smelled too damn good… Actually, no, all doubts were soon shoved aside – it had to be Larry’s. Mmmmm…

The most important (read: only) thing Ally ever learned from [her affair with] Professor James Dawson in law school was that if ever faced with a snooze-inducingly boring case, good musical accompaniment would work wonders. Raking her mind for something she could put on to make the process of dissecting another whiny client’s case a little more interesting, she remembered yet another cinematic wonder she & Larry had watched (or, rather, one that she’d *forced* him to sit through) – “Pretty Woman”, which had Larry sticking fingers down his throat in a desperate attempt to convey his disgust with such “lowly” films… Now, regardless of what her husband might think of Julia Roberts (“They grossly overdid it with the collagen in her lips…”) or Richard Gere (“The man stuck a hamster up his ass, did you know that?!”), the music was still great. Pulling out the CD, the possession of which would surely be frowned upon by Larry, she set the centre’s volume to near-minimum so Anna wouldn’t have to venture into their room in the middle of the night, whining about “dishrezbectpful parents” who wouldn’t let her “sweep”. Once the CD was whirled up (alongside Sting’s “Brand New Day”, a CD they, strangely enough, didn’t argue over), the first chimy chords of Natalie Cole’s “Wild Women Do”, a feminist ballad focusing on the superiority of strong, independent, don’t-bullshit-me women over weak, men-obsessed pushovers ready to tag alongside anything in pants, obediently wagging their tails… How fitting, she thought, leafing through the complaint of a specimen of said “weak pushover” who, apparently, in hopes of being promoted to “strong & independent”, finally decided to divorce her sleazebag of a husband. Things were rather bumpy along the case, and of course, as fate would have it, it all toppled onto Ally. However, it was only 12-something at night, and she’d still have plenty of time to figure all that out… Right now, as the song’s tempo increased, Ally decided to get up and continue the self-pampering routine she’d started earlier, momentarily considering throwing the phone into the Charles [River] so Larry’d never need to be outside their bedroom again…

“You tell me you want a woman who
Is simple as a flower?!
Well, if you want me to act like that
You’ve gotta pay me by the hour!”

Ally stood up, hips rhythmically swaying to the beat, arms flying every which way as if she were conducting her own orchestra. It’s songs like this that had started to really emboss her beliefs in feminism (up until the point where Larry’d smile his puppy dog smile, at which moment Ally’d be once again reduced to the weak pushover on behalf of which she was appointed to litigate…)… At the given time, though, when Larry was out of sight, Ally was allowed to forget about the drool-inducing critter and focus on laminating her newly-acquired feminist beliefs.

“Don’t wanna travel in the danger zone?
Take another number!
Don’t want a lover who can
Hold her own?
Baby step aside
If you don’t wanna ride,
Because
Wild women do
And they don’t regret it!
Wild women show
What they’re going through!”

She twirled around, stepping out the rhythm as her wet hair whipped around to either side in turn, sprinkling a nearby photo frame with tiny droplets of water. As she paused her upper-body movements to wipe it off (continuing to tap out the beat with her bare feet at the same time), she took a closer look at the photo pressed behind the glass – her in Larry’s arms four years ago, on some godforsaken island a hundred miles from civilization they’d chosen for a honeymoon by closing their eyes and pointing to a random dot on the map, her tan midriff bordered by a snow-white bikini against his golden-brown chest, her arms clasped around his neck, his under her back & knees, thin sandy legs swung over his left arm, ear-to-ear smiles on both… This was the picture you could look back at when you’re, say, 70, and by it alone be completely convinced you’ve lived a full life – after all, you’ve shared a moment like *that*… That moment alone, like Larry had told her that night way back when, “was worth everything…” And it was true, still, four years down the road… He was right. She’d always known it.

Nevertheless, the song continued, and Ally was determined to fight the increasingly strong urge to go hunt him down in the apartment and curl up in his lap, purring on his chest…

As she continued discoing to the tune, unaware of her surroundings, Larry was released from over-the-phone torture and scurried up to their bedroom, expecting to find Ally in something nice and harmless… A little startled by the clear-as-day image of her, half-naked, prancing joyously around in the manner of those puppets the Maria & the Von Trapp children conducted in “The Sound of Music”, while going about fixing little things that marred the overall near-perfect picture of the bedroom, a cheesy tune from “*that* movie”, as he later nicknamed it, playing in the background, it took him some time to get his eyes to focus on the whole picture. There was something strangely comforting and too goddamned sexy for words in those cotton Hanes with little forget-me-nots sprinkled about, in the way she seemed so comfortable and at ease in the ginger-gold glow of the room, in the way she started lovingly buttoning the shirt (in hopes of hanging it up) he’d thrown on the bed that afternoon… with loud, strong and quite un-Ally music playing in the background all along… Just as he was settling into his front-and-centre seat, thinking she was still unaware there were any spectators to her dance solo, she suddenly whirled around, female intuition slapping her upside the head… Her eyes narrowed to the Ling-glare, but the only sound that’d managed to emerge was a burp… How dare he stand there and watch her look completely ridiculous without a) telling her; and/or b) joining in on the ridiculous behaviour?! A true *man*, she thought with disgust… He’d deserved every single hell-kissed bubble that’d landed on him from her furious loofa attack back in the bathroom…

Larry gave her that adorable “Al-*lee*…” look, “You were great!”

“If I were you I’d shut up right about now…” Ally answered back, still not too thrilled.

“No, seriously… you were… very, um…” he leaned in closer, longing for a kiss that’d be the first, but definitely not the last, of that evening…

“Great. I know. I would’ve finished with a lap dance, but you came in just a tad too late….” Ally deadpanned, eyes stellar. Larry winced a “shucks!” and continued his maneuvers towards her lips, but his expedition was cut short by the barrier of Ally’s palm.

“Save that for later.” She suggested, but he continued drooling into her hand, running his tongue along the length of her fingers. She laughed that unrestricted, no-holds-barred laugh that turned him on to the point of insanity, perhaps because it was a sure sign she’d dropped the Ann Taylor wrapping she wore during the day, both inside & out, and changed her mindset into eveningwear, a sleeker, sexier, much more risqué attitude brought out immediately by that tiny metamorphosis. It reminded them both, especially at times when they’d be bogged down by the length of their “to do” lists, that you don’t have to be a lawyer 24/7, and that parenting can leave room for fun, too...

…though, on second thought, not too much – the second they heard Anna’s door squeak open and the pitter-patter of little feet down their parquet, Larry dived under the covers and stretched out, hoping to become flatter, while Ally hurriedly turned off the music, threw various items of clothing, books, papers and even her laptop (which broke Larry’s camouflage for a moment as he let out an “owwwwwww…”, all 6 pounds of her computer slamming into the back of his skull) all into one heap, desperately trying to cover up his presence under the comforter should a certain 4-year-old equestrian happen to wander into their bedroom. Thankfully, she soon returned back to her room without any layovers, and they both let out their breaths, Larry soon wrestling Ally to kiss his way up her thighs, Ally giggling and trying to push him away, his hands pressing her arms firmly into the mattress. All would’ve ended rather noisily had Larry not spotted a videotape lying on her nightstand, a tape of such horrendous sap & goo that it was simply an insult to be in one room with it… As a true Neanderthal (which Ally was already convinced of as his primal instincts fought with the nonexistent sensibility of “cleaning the room” with a daycare citizen nonsensically roaming the dark-immersed corridors), he *had* to voice his opinion.

“How can *any* respectable, sensible, WISE person rent *“Sweet November”*?!” his upper lip raised up into an “ewwwww” as he patiently awaited Ally’s response. Had Ally not been concerned with the outcome of the already begun passion marathon, she would’ve acquainted her heel with his crotch.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, Blockbuster was out of the “Playboy presents…” series! They promised to have them in next week…” Ally was livid. What kind of movies she rents gave him no right to insult her intelligence. “Have you even *seen* it???” She asked, knowing the answer beforehand – at times a little too sure of himself when it concerned pop culture or anything related to it, he would judge things he’d merely heard of without caring to research them at all.

Larry decided to answer quietly, but back up his “uneducated” opinion with loud and clear facts – “Uh, no, BUT—“

BUT Ally wasn’t one to give up her orator stand too quickly, and Larry should’ve kept up with that little fact. “A-HA!” She swished victoriously, throwing back the covers and pointing an accusatory, sleek finger in his direction. “Marvelous demonstration of all those skills you got your brilliant A-pluses on in your 3L year -- YOU can’t even set up a decent prosecution, you—“ here she paused for a moment, her throat still gurgling to some bizarre melody, and then she suddenly remembered the parallel she’d unintentionally made earlier on in the evening, and decided that – given the unfriendly circumstances – then was the time to vent it out – “you SHARK!”

Larry, a true thespian at heart, fell back, mime-lifeless, onto the bed. He convulsed for a moment, imitating agony due to such a hurtful artillery attack, then snapped into “ER” mode, throwing out technical terms left and right, and arrived at his final destination – “Asystole!” he declared in a loud, emotionless voice, much like that of many of the so-called “doctors” employed in real-life ERs across the country.

Ally kicked him in the ribs with the sort of expression ten-year-olds wear when they nudge squirrel carcasses they find in their backyards. “Shut up.”

As if conversing with a live audience, Larry quickly resurrected and extended a hand in Ally’s direction. “Mind you, mesdames & messieurs, I’m *already* dead as is, and yet SHE—“ here his voice was laced with sarcastic disgust – “continues her bloodthirsty attack!”

Ally pounced on the “Corpse”, furiously attacking his (strangely, still warm) lips with her own set as said “Corpse” attempted (in a quite un-dead manner) to insert his tongue into the narrow opening hers provided. Tangled in a very much alive kiss, both parties agreed to let the political differences slide for now and focus more on -- *ahem* -- “international relations”. Strangely enough, all objects not pertaining to the discussion in prospect were mercilessly sent to the floor, and Larry wriggled under the comforter to -- *ahem* -- “begin” the “discussion” on a “closer” level…

Just as the “Versailles-Washington Treaty” “papers” were about to be “signed”, a very awake “unwanted guest” was heard roaming the halls outside the “conference room”. Larry cursed out the entire international equestrian community for simply EXISTING, and himself for being enough of an ass to disregard the potential consequences that afternoon, and Ally, throwing on her (or his, she couldn’t quite make anything out in the dark) flannel shirt, sprinted out, hoping to catch Anna before she reached the now-empty closet and direct the little critter back to her bedroom. She succeeded, as Larry soon found out, and a few minutes later, with Anna safely tucked in down the hall, his baroness reappeared, all radiance & sexiness. He semi-consciously licked his lips – boy was this gonna be a night…

------ [Ally] -----

A throaty chuckle broke out of the darkness that I anxiously awaited to step into.

“Guinevere comes to Lancelot…”

I smiled shyly, eyes turned downward a bit, wearing that innocent, golden-nectarine blush I knew he loved. The whole scene did vaguely remind me of some long-ago pre-planned night of passion in a luxurious medieval royal boudoir, though that very exquisite sensation of steamy fragility multiplied by early barocco decorum made it all the more savory, really…

I cautiously crawled up into bed, a hand on either side of his body as I leaned in for a kiss that spoke for itself in terms of complimenting my eveningwear of choice. His tongue gently traced the inner outline of my lips, increasing the pressure at an agonizingly slow pace, proving once again that he can at time portray self-control in its highest form… all to prolong my pleasure.

“What do we do now?” I asked for no reason at all other than to say *something*.

He looked at me as if I’d suddenly forgotten the capital of the United States.

“Haul out the checkers! What else *is* there to do?”

I giggled giddily into his shoulder, but he continued, “I mean, really -- you’re *only* lying on top of a very turned on ME wearing nothing but a--" he paused to examine my sleepwear of choice, “--strip of fabric which will, rest assured, come off faster than you’ll be able to say “sex”, and we’re *only* -- oh God --“ his thought was cut off by a very rasped call for the Lord Almighty -- that was the product of me vampirizing his neck. Whoopsie-daisy. Bless me, Father, for I have—oh, damn, it just looked too… tasty. I *had* to try it.

We rolled around in bed, breathing in the airy bliss; we laughed, we held each other, we rose & fell together, we whispered all those long-ago-forgotten words we hadn’t heard for what had seemed like ages – we regularly told each other we loved each other, of course, but we’d long since dismissed all creativity in that department, leaving it all to the banales; in the course of that evening, we resuscitated all those gorgeous phrases we’d spent hours on some 5-6 years ago… We felt like kids, chasing after each other for the thrill of being chased, catching each other as we fell against each other, both into the same Garden of Eden… At some point or other we both fell strangely silent, breaking off whatever conversation we’d been carrying on and giving in to sensation over discussion, but that didn’t last too long as we burst out laughing after less than a minute in such silence, solely because we couldn’t bear not hearing each other, not talking, not connecting in every possible and impossible way… I’d found my way back to him 5 years ago, and still couldn’t get enough of all this masculine perfection. I’m intelligent enough to understand that you really shouldn’t build your life to fit inside any certain borders, but – crazy as this might sound – I can’t seem to see life outside the frontier of Larry. Moreover, I’m not even curious as to what it might possibly BE like – I’m happy beyond my wildest dreams as is…

…But that’s a whole different bathtub conversation altogether.

[Finita la Comedia…]

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