"Maybe later everybody'll come in for a nice hot pie," she remarked casually. "Won't be sitting outside, no they won't."
She heard a thunking sound coming from upstairs, which could mean one of two things.
Sweeney could be upstairs working on his chair.
Or he could be upstairs hitting his head on the wall. Mrs. Lovett had known for him to do that once or twice before, when he was extremely aggravated with himself and the world. Her heart had immediately quickened at the thought of the barber, and the usual smile inched across her face. Deep in her hopeful thinkings, she flitted over to the counter and mixed lard, flour, eggs, and water together for pie dough. Her whisking spoon did little to blot out the thumping sound from upstairs.
Suddenly, there was a tinkling crash, and the bowl slipped from her grasp and onto the counter, where it spun for a moment until it came to a stop on its flat bottom. She hurried out the door into the pounding rain, up the slippery stairs and into the barber shop.
The barber stood, staring at the shattered remains of the only picture of what used to be his family. The dirty gold frame was bent and the glass broken into pieces. The glass fragments were mixed with blood, as if the man had broken the glass, then dropped the frame. This thought was backed by his wet, red hand, and the woman hurried over to him, her skirts and hair dripping with water.
He looked up at her as she took his hand, pulling the cloth from his belt so she could clean the blood off and look for stray pieces of glass.
"You're wet," observed the barber, turning his head to look at her. He didn't pull his hands away, and let her wipe them off. The cuts were few and simple, and there was no glass embedded in them. She looked down at the broken frame.
"Now what'd you go and do that for?" she asked him. "I'll have to run back down to the shop an' get a dust pan and a broom."
He stood there, silently staring at her water logged form, and she sighed, quickly whisking around to the door and splattering water droplets on the ground. She ran back downstairs, covered the broom head with a cloth, and then scuttled back up the stairs.
Sweeney was still right where he had been when she had left, and she sighed again, pulling the cloth of the broom.
"Move over, love," she said softly, pushing him back a step. She picked up the frame and sat it back on the table. She then swept up the leftover glass and set the dust pan on the table next to the frame. She pulled the picture from the frame. It was ripped and bloody.
"Well, that's ruined," she remarked, not really looking at the picture of Benjamin Barker, who was standing before her as a different man, Lucy Barker, and their daughter, Johanna. The woman offered the beloved picture to him, and he took it and ripped it in half, letting the two pieces drift from his hand and to the floor.
Mrs. Lovett's gaze went down with the picture. "What..."
She didn't notice that he had moved towards her and was now less then a foot away.
"You are wet," he said again, this time as if contemplating what to do about it. Her gaze quickly returned to him, and her mouth watered at his closeness.
"I wouldn't be if there wasn't a great useless lump of a man upstairs with nothing to do but break things." She had trouble keeping her voice steady, but he didn't notice. His eyes scanned down her, pausing like most men's did as they reached her bosom. She shivered at his judgmental glances, and he cocked an eyebrow at the evident tension in her dripping body.
She longed for him to do something, instead of just standing there staring at her.
"Mr. T?"
His eyes met hers again, those emotionless brown orbs. Her heart melted.
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?" asked the pie-maker, longing to get downstairs and change out of her soaked garments.
"Thinking," he replied vaguely, pulling off his black fingerless gloves. He sat them on the table next to the dustpan. Mrs. Lovett wanted to gasp as his arm grazed her on the way to do so.
"About what, love?" The woman was shivering from cold now, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself.
"About you."
"Me?" Her pounding heart skipped a beat in surprise. She didn't think that he ever thought about her. Notice her, maybe every once in a while, but she didn't think his mind was open enough to comprehend more then death and Lucy.
"About how you're going to freeze to death in that dress." One of his rare smiles played across his face as he spoke the next words. "And how it'd be so much better if it was off."
She let out an audible gasp at his words, and remained silent as he gently spun her around and unlaced the tie at the back of her dripping dress. He pulled it over her head, causing hundreds of water droplets to fall to the wooden floor.
He draped the dress over his precious chair and drew her towards him, holding her tightly against his warm body.
"Is that better?" he asked, moving a wet strand of her dark red hair out of her face.
She rested her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes, her mind leading her father then this was probably going to go.
"Much better."
Todd sunk to the floor, his back against the wall. Mrs. Lovett leaned against one of his legs, and her legs draped over his other one. She groaned slightly as he kissed her neck, and she opened her eyes long enough to press her lips greedily to his own. The arms around her waist grew tighter, pulling her onto him. She giggled slightly.
"There's one problem with this," she remarked, both her smile and eyes playful. He gave her a questioning look which soon disappeared as she undid the buttons on his vest and shirt and pulled them off. She leaned against his bare chest, in heaven. She let her fingers run down his chest, stopping at his belt hesitantly.
"The sign says 'Closed'," the barber suddenly said. She didn't understand him at first so he repeated himself. "The sign on the door. It says 'Closed'."
"So...," replied Mrs. Lovett, still not understanding what he was insinuating. "What... Ooh..."
He chuckled at the change in her facial expression as she realized what he wanted to do with her. He pressed his lips against her ear, his voice barely audible.
"Sex, Mrs. Lovett."
"I realize that now, love." She watched him anxiously as his hands moved to undo her corset. He slipped it over her head and she pressed closer to him for warmth and just because she could.
"Ooh, Mr. T," she breathed as he took off his trousers and slipped back down to join her on the floor.
He pulled her into a passionate kiss, which quickly escalated to him disposing her of her panties, which quickly escalated into the word he had whispered to her earlier.
Time enough later that her dress was completely dry, the two sat beside each other. Mrs. Lovett rested her head on his shoulder.
"What made you do it?" she whispered to him, perfectly contented. He looked over at her.
"Do what?" he whispered back, playing with her hair.
"What made you drop the picture to bring me up here?" she clarified, closing her eyes as fingers moved to trace patterns on her lower back.
"I decided that maybe it was time to stop trying to bring back memories," he replied. "And time to start making new ones.■ He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall.■ But who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll regret doing this."
She giggled slightly at him. "I won't ever regret it, love."
He glanced back over at her. "I know you won't, love. I know."