She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. She writhed in ecstasy as she wrapped her legs around his waist, then raised her knees to his shoulders. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. Her husband was prouder of her every day.
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