Much of the time he would spend with her would be spent in front of the television. They didn’t sit in dirty undershirts and underwear watching daytime television, but rather, they watched the best situation comedies at any time of the day they wanted.
She would lay in front of him, fitting her body into his, mimicking the shape of his. He would strain his back a little trying to see over her head. He would spend his time pressing her hair down which would become fluffy, staticy or full of body. When he wasn’t pressing her hair down, he was pressing her body, touching it everywhere with his hands. Every so often, she’d press her whole body into his.
As the comedians said their lines and the buffoons did their pratfalls, he would share with her one of the most wonderful things two people can share, laughter. The laugh would begin as a personal expression, involuntary and for the sake of no one else. But the laugh would reach the other and it would slide down their shirt and tickle them.
Soon there would be a match of table tennis, the ball being a laugh. It would be paddled back and forth with intensity growing with each bat of the ball. The time between laughs would shorten and each laugh would become harder. Eventually, the laughter would be simultaneous. The game would be over and they’d be holding their sides with mutual mirth.
The hilarity was violent. It was vicious and strong. It grabbed them by the throat making it difficult to breathe. It shoved it’s fingers down their throats making them feel like throwing up. It punched them in the stomach, making them immobile and causing them to hold themselves for the pain. It stretched their faces. It hooked the corner of their lips and pulled them toward their ears in an unnatural way. It pushed them forcefully off the couch.
They fell on the floor, heaving, crying tears from the pain. They laid, him on top of her, unable to move, trying to catch their breath. Between the groans and belly grabbing, there would be the odd chuckle. He would recap the hilarious moment with a line or action, she would beg him not to continue saying, “no. No. I can’t take it. Please!”
After they rehabilitated, they got up off the floor, adjusted their twisted clothing and unruly hair, wiped the tears from the corners of their eyes and returned to the couch. She spooned him. He kissed her cheek. She smiled, it still hurt her cheek bones.
He pressed her hair down and rubbed his hand over her hips. She pressed herself into him. They had just been intimate with each other. They had just communicated passionately. They had just made laugh to each other.