The Morning After Christmas
By Laura Schiller
Based on: How The Grinch Stole Christmas
Copyright: Dr. Seuss, Brian Howard
On Boxing Day morning, the Grinch woke to a mix of most unfamiliar sensations: satin sheets and downy blankets against his skin, sunlight streaming in from between purple velvet curtains, the smells of vanilla, cranberry, soap and someone else's body, and – his eyes grew wide – Martha May Whovier smiling down at him, her auburn hair loose, one strap of her blue nightgown sliding off her creamy white shoulder.
"Aw, that's not fair," he mumbled, shutting both eyes, then opening one so as not to miss the illusion.
"What's not fair?" she asked, hiding laughter behind her quiet voice.
"I know my subconscious has an evil sense of humor, but this is taking it too far."
This time, she really did laugh, reaching out to play with the tufts of green hair on his bare chest. "You're not dreaming, honey, and neither am I."
"Prove it."
She kissed him long and hard, bringing back several pleasurable memories of last night. She was right; he couldn't have dreamed this. Even the most fertile imagination had its limits.
"Your hypothesis is correct," he declared, grinning from ear to ear as only the Grinch could. "Guess you're real after all. I'd show you my victory dance again if it wasn't so cozy here."
"I'll take your word for it." She sat up and stretched, both arms behind her head, the low neckline of her nightgown showing to excellent advantage. "But now I think we'd better get up."
"Do we have to?" he pouted.
"We do if we want to eat," she told him matter-of-factly. "There's leftover roast-beast in the icebox – thanks for bringing that back, by the way – oh, and that empty champagne bottle. I remember how much you like eating glass."
"How very thoughtful." He licked his lips, imagining the sharp crunch, the glittering granules. For champagne-flavored glass, he might even consider getting out of bed.
"Besides, I could really use a shower and – no offense, darling – so could you." She slipped out of bed with her back to him, pulled her nightgown over her head in one smooth motion, and held it out in front of her with the faintest hint of a frown.
"Shower?" he squawked, finding it hard to muster up the proper outrage at the idea while her softly rounded backside was in view. "You've got to be kidding me! I haven't showered in thirty years. Avoid 'em on principal. Instruments of torture. First comes the icy cold water – brr! – then scalding hot water – sss! – and if you're not careful, you can slip on soap and break your neck and … and … uh … "
She cut his tirade short by turning to face him – and tossed her nightgown aside, revealing every glorious inch of her to the morning light. Her blue eyes were bright with mischief as she recognized the effect she had on him.
"We could wash together," she purred. "My Jacuzzi will be perfectly warm, I promise you."
"Weeell … if you insist," he grumbled, faking a reluctance that fooled neither of them. "But only in the interest of science, since I don't actually know what a Jacuzzi is."
Halfway out the door, Martha glanced back at him over her shoulder with a smirk that challenged him to follow. He did not waste a second in meeting that challenge.
