"Wash or dry?" Gianna asked.
"Dry," Francis said. With one hand, he caught the dishtowel his wife tossed at him.
"How's the shed coming?" she asked as she carefully washed a wine glass.
Francis chuckled. "It's gonna be awesome. I should be done with the framing by the time Raul gets his rear end over here in the morning."
Gianna shook her head.
"You can't wait to get up and use that nail gun again, can you?"
Francis snapped the dishtowel at his wife's lovely *ss.
"That's right. A man needs power tools." They grinned at each other as Gianna shoved a dripping pan into Francis's chest.
Francis dried the pan and turned to hang it on the rack suspended above the kitchen island. Reaching around him for the last of the dishes, Gianna deliberately pressed into her husband's back. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the mixture of sweat and fresh air that clung to Francis's skin from his afternoon's labor.
"Go upstairs. I'll finish the dishes," Gianna murmured.
Francis's knew the tone in Gianna's voice. He draped the towel over her shoulder and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Don't keep me waiting," he told her.
Once the kitchen was cleaned to her satisfaction, Gianna's went upstairs to the bathroom. She took a long time preparing for bed despite the fact that Francis was waiting for her.
Gianna slipped into the dark bedroom and quietly closed the door.
"What were you doing in there?" Francis asked in a hushed voice.
"Brushing my teeth, washing my face . . . you know, that pesky personal hygiene hangup I have," Gianna said. She navigated her way through the blackness to her bureau. Francis heard her fumbling for something.
"What are you doing now?" he asked, trying to hide his impatience.
"Looking for the matches. It's so dark in here; there's no moon tonight."
"It's getting late, babe," Francis whispered.
"I know."
"You'll be tired in the morning, Gianna."
She had to laugh at that one. "Always thinking of me, aren't you? The sooner I come to bed, the sooner I'll be asleep, right?"
"Something like that," her husband replied. Gianna could practically hear the smile on his face.
"You know, hon, you do take good care of me. I don't tell you that often enough," Gianna said. She struck a match and lit a candle resting in a wrought iron holder. The light it shed was meager, barely enough for Francis to see what Gianna was wearing.
"We take good care of each other," Francis insisted.
Gianna moved to Francis's side of the bed. Bending down, she stroked his hair, pausing only slightly as her husband turned his head to kiss her palm.
"Honey, there is something I wanted to talk to you about," Gianna said seriously.
Francis suppressed a groan. Why did she always do this right before they went to bed? The excited feeling that was stirring between his legs began to waver.
"What's that?"
"I wish you had asked me before inviting Raul and Heaven over this afternoon."
Francis sat up in bed, perplexed and feeling defensive.
"Gianna, that was your idea. You suggested it this morning."
Gianna sighed. "I know, but I wasn't ready for company. The house was a mess."
Francis couldn't believe his ears.
"Gianna," he began firmly, "you said it was too nice a day to be stuck indoors cleaning. You said you wanted to take a walk with Heaven while Raul and I worked on the shed." Francis's eyes were adjusting to the thin candlelight. He could see Gianna was wearing a pair of baggy flannel boxer shorts and one his old t-shirts. The evening was not shaping up as he had hoped.
"I don't always say what I mean, Francis. If you paid closer attention to me, you would know that," Gianna said soberly.
Francis sat speechless on the bed and stared at his wife, who stood next to him with her hands firmly planted on her hips.
"It's just that, you know . . . you don't always take the time to find out what I'm really thinking."
Francis slumped back onto the bed.
"Oh, Gianna . . . what the hell are you talking about? Just come to bed, will you?"
"No. I want to talk about this. I want you to start listening to me. Be more respectful."
Francis rolled onto his side and pulled a pillow over his head. Tonight had such promise. He had seen the look in his wife's eyes and felt her brush up against him as they cleaned the kitchen. How could he have been so wrong?
"I'm serious, Francis. Get out from under that pillow and look at me when I'm talking to you!"
"Okay, Gianna. I'm sorry, Baby," Francis stammered as he emerged. He couldn't believe he was apologizing. "I thought you wanted them to come over, really." Francis reached a hand out to touch his wife's arm, but stopped in fear that she would smack it away.
