1.2
John stood above the toilet, his right hand held against the wall before him, his left pistoning up and down frantically. His breath came in spastic jerks through clenched and then unclenched teeth. His glasses had slid down to the flushed and sweat-sleeked tip of his nose. His pelvis jumped forward rhythmically until everything went rigid and he finally came a haltingly ample stream. Exhausted, he rested his forehead against the wall. After a brief respite and a quick clean-up, John descended the stairs.
On screen, Ellen Burstyn was poring over an assortment of colored pills. John walked on past the couch and Rose, still at her craft, lips pursed tightly. He made his way into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside was a flashy array of TaB, Faygo, Alternian Soft Drink, various orange sodas, and a half-empty bottle of apple juice which Dave had left behind weeks ago (Rose frequently stashed a bottle of gin somewhere in the kitchen but it was not in the fridge as far as John could see). John grabbed a bottle of Sunkist. Accompanied by a crackling hiss, John unscrewed the cap as he looked out the kitchen window. The swing set and Slimer pogo ride were still in the yard, though the paint had begun to peel and rust, neither having been used while they were in this particular timeline. John could hear Maplehoof clopping behind the closed door.
John went back to the living room, letting himself fall heavily back into his spot on the couch. An eye dialated enormously on the television screen. The force of John's sit caused the entire couch to jostle, causing one of Rose's needles to go errant. Her eyebrows arched rancorously and she threw down the half-finished scarf.
"If my hobbies are so irksome to you," she said, eyes staring forward at nothing at all, "perhaps you could at least vocalize your annoyance into some kind of dialogue rather than channeling it into vindictive sabotage."
"Jegus, why does everything I do have to be related to some subconscious–."
"Unconscious," Rose growled.
"Whatever! You're acting crazy. Why can't you just relax?"
"Relax?"
"Yeah," John said, hoping this was going somewhere. Instead, it was Rose that was going somewhere: the kitchen. After a minute and the minute noises of glass and sloshing liquid, Rose returned with a martini in hand. She sat back down, looking dead ahead without a glance at John.
"I'm sorry I ruined your scarf," John said.
Rose just sipped her martini.
"And I'm sorry I called you crazy."
Rose sipped deeper.
"And I'm sorry I called it a subconscious."
The corner of Rose's mouth betrayed her by twitching upward. She gingerly set her glass on the arm of the couch, her face more calm and languid than before. John decided it was best not to push his luck any further and just keep his mouth shut while she was contented.