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They lay side by side, slick with perspiration, their fingers barely touching. He felt as if he had consumed laudanum, as if everything was hazy and unreal – he was completely consumed by her. To continue the metaphor, he had spent the last few hours overdosing on her. It was well after 4 am. He turned his head towards the window, and he wasn't sure if his eyes were so blurry that he couldn't see properly, or their love-making had caused condensation to coat the windows. Blindly, he reached for an unlit cigar on the bedside table, and finally found one that hadn't been smoked to a stub and discarded carelessly. He struck a match on the wood of the bed and inhaled deeply.
"Are the windows-"
"Yes," she rasped, taking the cigar from his mouth and inhaling. He watched her and he still wanted to make love to her again and if only his humanly weak body was more capable he would have. She looked delicious as she pulled a draw from the cigar, wrapping her red lips around it. She sometimes did this, after a particularly strenuous hour or 9 with him. She secretly enjoyed them.
"It's a shame really because if I remember correctly, this room has an excellent view," she responded regally, and it was hard to imagine that only minutes ago she had begged him to end it, to take her, to just do something.
"It does."
He turned on his side to face her, "Are you hungry?"
"No," she shook her head. Never once, in their entire love affair, open-courtship, or marriage had Morticia answered that question with 'yes'.
"However I am thirsty," she declared, "So thirsty."
"Wine."
She thought back to the night before, "No, please. I'd rather not. Something to celebrate...champagne I think."
"Ok. I'm going to order some food," he climbed out of the bed, trusting that his legs would work. For a moment they were weak, tired from the strain and exhausted from the exertion.
"The wonders of room service."
The waiter set the food upon the table at the window and they both sat down, Morticia using the bed sheets as an improvised robe. He watched as she padded across the room, swishing them behind her in the the very essence of coquetry. She looked good in them. His wife looked good in bedsheets. His wife. It struck him again just how much of an utter and complete imbecile he had been.
"I can wear those if you wish," he began to untie his robe, "And you can have this."
"No, darling," she poured some champagne into the flutes and took a long, luxurious gulp. He watched her and smiled.
"You weren't lying," he took a forkful of the raw steak he had ordered. He liked that this hotel did not question his dietary requirements like other, lesser establishments – it was very much part of its charm.
"No," she swung her legs over the side of the chair, towards the window, and stretched out, "I feel revitalised." He followed the line of her body, watched as her shoulders fell back and relaxed.
He raised a brow and lifted his own glass.
"To being revitalised."
She clinked her glass against his and watched him for a while as he enjoyed his meal. Their silences were always easy and content. It was so simple and comfortable and he had forgotten that.
"Gomez?"
He looked up, her tone had substantially changed and he sensed her question was serious. He finished his mouthful and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
"Yes querida?"
"I have been wondering, but my preoccupation with our own little disagreement had somewhat distracted me. Did it end with Lucas and Wednesday?"
She waived a dismissive hand, and he knew that when she did that, she genuinely felt that what she was asking was in fact very important to her own peace of mind. At least, he thought wryly to himself, I know that much about her.
"No," he shook his head, "They were on good terms when I left."
He saw her shoulders visibly sink and he panicked. She didn't like the boy, and that was fair enough but surely she didn't want them to be finished? He wasn't that bad. Then though, he caught her smile and realised it was one of relief.
"Thank goodness," she smiled, "I would hate for her to be unhappy."
"I know that," he smiled and took another mouthful.
"Ah but Gomez, she doesn't. Obviously she does not. Would she have, otherwise, been so sure I would have asked awkward questions? Would have embarrassed her? She didn't want to tell me because she thought I would embarrass her. You see," she leaned forward, and it was evident she needed to say this, "I was under the impression, vain as it may be, that 'embarrassing' was not a label my children would have given me. Cold, calculated, a little too fond of their father yes, but embarrassing, no. I don't really know where I went wrong in that regard - "
"Let me interrupt you please," he held up his hand, "You are a clever woman ?"
"Of course I am," she smirked in only the way she could.
"Well, you are really, colossally, letting yourself down. You are clever enough to realise, surely, that that was her excuse. It was easier to tell me, to tell everyone aside from you, because you really are the person she wants to impress most. It would have been so awful for her, imagine, if you had disapproved. So it was easier, was it not, to keep it from you? You think Wednesday is as icy as you – not half as much. The problem is, she is horrendously poor at navigating emotions. Remember she lost Marie Antoinette when she was in fifth grade. Rather than telling anyone, she went on a rampage through the house. She actually welded two of my favourite rapiers together and tore your favourite fur coat to shreds. She was never good at dealing with strong emotion. I'd like to say that was our fault, but actually, it isn't. It's just who she is. You were like that, you were Wednesday."
"And now I've turned into my mother?"
"No," he exclaimed, "By God no, you're not that unattractive! We did far worse. And it meant that any excuse of ours was invalid. But our daughter, our daughter did everything right and fell in love without any problems and so, she was convinced something would go wrong."
She looked at him sceptically, "She thought I would cause trouble. Gomez, she thought I would ruin it."
"No," he shook his head, "I tell you, Morticia. I insist it was because she was frightened to disappoint you or let you down."
She considered his theory for a moment, and while it was evident she was not entirely convinced, she obviously saw some merit in his argument.
"Our children need you more," he said simply and without jealousy, "So your opinion of what they do, and the choices they make, is more important and so is your approval. Me, I'm just their chequebook for poison and toys."
"You know that's not true," she laughed.
"No, but it is one of the primary reasons they quite like me. What I say is true though, and no matter what Wednesday wanted you to believe, all she wanted was your approval."
She nodded lightly, then re-filled both of their glasses. The windows had cleared a little, and the sun was starting to come up over the city.
"When is your return journey?"
"I didn't buy a return," he answered, placing the silver dome over the now cleared plate, "I understand I was hardly gentlemanly wolfing that down, but I haven't eaten since I left home."
She raised a brow.
"No wonder you're hungry," she responded dryly.
"Did you buy a return flight?"
"No," she shook her head, "But you already know that because you checked the joint account."
"I have my means," he laughed lightly, "And you are the lady who refuses to get a bank account all on her own."
She shook her head, "You're pushing you luck Gomez."
He laughed unctuously, the noise filling the entire room. She couldn't help but join in, for she found him enthralling.
"I feel brave."
"That's your problem," she whispered softly, feigning annoyance.
"Always was, cara mia," he lifted his glass to his lips, "I was very brave when I asked you to marry me. After all, I was reaching for the stars."
She smiled innocently, "I'm glad you performed. Was I really like our daughter? I don't remember that."
"You were less abrasive," he swung his legs over the arms of the seat, mimicking her position as he turned to look out of the window to watch the city come alive.
"But yes, you didn't want your parents to know."
"For very, very different reasons Gomez," she responded seriously, "We had an affair. You were betrothed to my sister. And the sad reality was, I didn't care what my parents thought. I still don't."
"Ok, so perhaps the situations were quite different but you were frightened too."
"With good reason," she answered, "Wednesday had no reason."
"She thought she did, and I think that is what counts," he shrugged. He could see that she would continue to mull over this because she hadn't quite decided how she felt about it all.
"I suppose we have a wedding to go back to," she said, her eyes trained on the window. It suddenly occurred to him that they did indeed have a very elaborate and extensive celebration to begin planning.
"Not for at least a week."
"A week?"
"Yes, a week. We haven't holidayed without the children for years and I feel that we should take great advantage of such a situation."
"A 7th honeymoon?"
"I don't see why not," he laughed, "I see this one being a long engagement anyway."
"At least I get a new dress," she said dryly.
She raised a brow and he laughed.