Searchterm Entry #13: Quota

Never let it be said that rationing is a good thing — particularly in this story, the thirteenth entry to our Search Term Challenge. For details of the challenge, and to see other entries, click here.

MCM is the author of this entry, which claimed third place in the challenge. To read more of his quirky goodness, check out 1889 Labs.

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Quota

Extra sex was not going well.  Alex was sitting in bed, sheets wrapped around him like a paisley cocoon, while Jenny brushed her teeth in the bathroom.  He hadn’t checked the clock before they’d started, but it said 9:04 now.  He had this awful feeling she was getting ready for bed.

She came into the room flossing her teeth, but paused when she saw the expression on his face.

“What?” she said, frowning.

“We were in the middle of something,” he said, trying to mask his frustration.

She looked at him, then down at herself.  The difference was striking: he was naked, but she was wearing one of his old t-shirts.  And not in a sexy way.  In a utilitarian way.  What’s worse, she’d put it on sometime in the last ten minutes, despite all the effort he’d made in undressing her in the most sensual way he could imagine.  It had taken him days to think of those moves.  Days!

She seemed as shocked by the t-shirt as he was.

“Oh,” she said.  “Right.”

“Jenny,” he said, holding his arms out to her.  “Come back to bed.”

“One sec,” she said, and ran back into the bathroom.  It was significantly more than a second before she came back.  She gargled at least twice, flushed the toilet, and when she finally returned, she was wearing her pyjama pants.  Alex was already dozing off.

“Sorry,” she said, slipping under the sheets, but not getting close.  “Where were we?”

“In a very different place,” Alex sighed, and tried to find his boxers.  “Never mind.  Let’s go to bed.”

“No!” Jenny said, reaching for him with so little enthusiasm it was like an especially inept puppeteer was controlling her.  “Come on.  This is important.  Let’s do it.”

He glared at her.

“You aren’t taking Dr Barstone seriously,” he said.

“Oh, baby, I am!  I really am!  I just needed to brush my teeth!”

“No,” he said.  “No, you’re doing everything you can to avoid having sex more than twice a week.  You know what this means for our relationship, but you don’t care.  Tonight it was brushing your teeth, last night it was cleaning the house—”

“It’s a dirty house!” she said, motioning around the pristine and organized bedroom.  “I don’t want to have to clean up all the time!  If you spent more time tidying up and less time buying sex toys—”

“It was just that one time,” he said.  “And Dr Barstone said—”

She laughed, got out of bed and changed into her proper pyjama shirt, with her back to him, out of spite.  She did it just out of reach.  He knew from experience.

“Sometimes I think Dr Barstone tells you things to see if you’ll obey without question,” she said.  “I don’t think psychiatrists are supposed to be so obviously voyeuristic about their patients’ lives.”

“She’s not voyeuristic, she’s helping us grow closer together!” he said, gripping his head in his hands.  “She’s doing this for us, Jenny.  All she wants is to hear about our successes!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Jenny.

“She has two degrees!  Two!  How many do you have?”

“Just the one,” she said bitterly.  “Mine came with common sense.  How about yours?”  She put her hair up in the way she did when she was definitely not in the mood.    He called it her porcupine do.  She was done for the night, one way or another.  She glanced over her shoulder at his bare chest, squinting sharply like she was repulsed by what she saw.

Alex turned away from her, looking at the painting over his dresser with so much longing that it was as if he wanted to escape into it.  It was a warm spring day there.  Pastel colours, an orange sun.  The bedroom was a deep blue.  It made him shiver.

“I dunno,” he said quietly.  “Sometimes I think we were better together before we got married.”

“Thanks,” she said, checking herself in the mirror.  “That’s helping our relationship right there.”

He shrugged, pulled on his shirt.

“I used to plan my days around the next time I’d get to see you. I started drinking coffee just so I’d have more hours in the day to be with you.  I remember being so desperate to find quick moments alone together.”

“Quick is right.”

He lay back, staring at the ceiling.  She got into bed, stared up with him, hands on her chest.  The space between them was slight, but immense.

“I remember your step-mother’s place,” she said, after a time.  “The broom closet?”

He laughed, closed his eyes.

“I don’t know how we fit in there,” he said.

“We were younger,” she shrugged.  “We fit together better.”

He put his arm around her shoulder, and she curled against him, ran her hand back and forth against his chest, listening to his heart.  They fit together pretty well now, too.

“I remember that Christmas at your parents’ place,” he said.  “Having to time sex so your bellowing bastard brothers would drown you out.”

“They were so damn noisy,” she laughed.

“So were you,” he said quietly.

She squeezed him tighter, and he pulled her close.  They lay in silence, the clocking ticking away inconsequential minutes, just watching the shape of the shadows on the stucco walls.

Jenny pushed herself up, lips at his cheek, and smiled.

“How about a kiss?” she whispered.

He turned his head, nose-to-nose with her, looked into her brown eyes as they danced left and right, watching him back.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m pretty sure,” she smiled, crinkling up her nose.

“Remember what Dr Barstone said,” he said.  “We’re supposed to ration them…” She held her breath, and it took his breath away too. “… like they’re in… limited supply.”

“I know,” she said, lips brushing against his.  “Give one to me anyway.”

He did, though it seemed it should count as at least twenty kisses.  She pulled herself back, forehead pressed into his, and bit her lip.

“So,” she whispered.

“So,” he said.

“Any thoughts?”

“Dr Barstone is an idiot,” he said, and they blew two quotas all in one night, several times over.

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MCM is a lover of left socks and largely responsible for the bizarre tales over on 1889 Labs.