Maureen thinks that if it gets any hotter she might just melt into a waxen flesh-tinted puddle on the floor. She remarks on this impending travesty to a disinterested Joanne, who informs her that she's being morbid and returns to her focused painting of Maureen's toenails.
They're the kind of red that makes Maureen electric—her favorite shade without a doubt. That absolutely perfect blend between a juicy maraschino cherry and a Mackintosh apple and the Covergirl lipstick that Angel has practically bought out in its entirety. Thinking of cherries makes Maureen vaguely hungry, and the further thought of the cool jar resting on their refrigerator shelf is tempting enough to pull Maureen out of her sluggish state and off the couch.
She's distracted in the kitchen by the unpacked bags of groceries, and snorts when she notices that again, Joanne has forgotten to buy her cereal. Damn health foods. A sugar rush from Lucky Charms in the morning is what Maureen needs to make it through the day. Joanne's horse food doesn't even deserve to be known as edible. Honestly, think of the last time Collins and Angel collapsed here at night. In the morning, at breakfast, Angel nearly choked on a whole-wheat flake. Collins had to give him the Heimlich. And it was completely Joanne's fault. Or her cereal. They're one and the same, anyway. Boring and too crunchy. At least Joanne isn't completely flavorless, Maureen muses with a wicked grin.
Joanne yells her name from the adjoining room, and Maureen returns momentarily with the jar of cherries clutched mischievously in her hands. Enough of this blasted heat. She cracks the top open and, satisfied, drinks half the sugary syrup in one swig. A large drop rolls down her chin, and Joanne licks it off with a cool tongue. She can be sexy when she wants to be.
Maureen fishes a cherry out with her finger, and, instead of eating it, she does what's much more illogical but much more fun, and throws it at Joanne's face. It perches in her pouf of curls precariously and Joanne plucks it out with an expression of vague disdain. She mutters something concerning Maureen's current level of blood intoxication, and is treated to a pillow attack.
Once Maureen is able to keep a tight hold on Joanne, she pulls the pillow away and kisses her deeply. Joanne, to her surprise, pulls away, and whines about the heat, and about sex making more body heat, and a bit more about the heat and how miserably hot it is and why the fuck isn't the fan on. Ludicrous. They cuddle instead, or attempt to do so without any sort of physical touching. Which results in a sort-of-varied-finger-twiddling in the air. And kiss-faces across the futon. Maureen imagines it's like what she sees in cartoons, and her lipstick to match her toenails is sending a holographic floating pucker shape through the space between them to plant itself across Jo's sweaty cheekbone.
Maureen doesn't think she's entirely too silly to be in love with this woman who tells her she's silly every night. She doesn't think it's a mistake, or foolishness, or a phase Mark thinks she can just get over. Because when Joanne grins, and makes a kiss-face back, Maureen is confident that Joanne's imagining just what she did. They know each other that way; they know smiles and wrinkles and scars and smells. It's summer, and though they're both too hot to touch, Maureen can still feel them connected in an even more beautiful way. And that, she hears herself say matter-of-factly in her head, is why they fit.
