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He looks thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think there’s more to this family. Just the granddaughter. I think she’s also some character from ancient Russian mythology who became associated with the New Year. The Soviets changed original customs to make them secular in the thirties—and I guess consistency or logic wasn’t a priority.”
With that, he unpauses the movie.
It’s subtitled, not dubbed, but that somehow makes it better—makes me feel like I’m in Russia. As the film progresses, Art frequently pauses and explains certain nuances similar to Grandpa Frost. Oh, and some of the plot elements bring back recent memories for me—like when the hero and his friends drink too much vodka in the banya.
“What did you think?” Art asks when the movie credits roll.
Reluctantly, I extricate myself from his embrace. “I liked it.”
“Great. Tomorrow, we can watch TheCaucasian Captive.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is it a romcom too, or something more serious? That title makes it sound like a racially charged Stockholm syndrome romance.”
His eyes widen. “It’s a romcom. Caucasian in this case is used in its original meaning because the crux of the plot centers on an old tradition of the people in the Caucasus region—bride stealing.”
I yawn. “Sounds intriguing. From my list, how about we watch The Princess Bride?”
“Deal.” He yawns also. “I think it’s time for bed.”
My sleepiness evaporates. “Sure.”
“Come,” he says. “Let’s learn each other’s evening routine.”
Yeah. That’s normal. No reason to jump up and down in excitement and glee, which is what I feel like doing all of a sudden.
Keeping a poker face, I follow him into the master bathroom—a room almost as large as my old place, with a rainfall showerhead, two sinks, and a huge bathtub.
“Do you like that sink?” He gestures at the one where I left my toothbrush.
“Sure.”
Can he tell how freaked out I am? Because the answer is very. The domesticity of this is just insane. It makes this whole living arrangement crazy real.
“Do you shower before bed?” he asks.
Skunk. I didn’t even think about that. “Yes.” I blush like the Snow Maiden. “You?”
More importantly, what are the odds he’ll want us to shower together?
His eyes gleam. “I usually shower after ballet practice, but today, I was thinking of doing it before bed. After I retire, that will be my new routine.”
The images. Oh, the images. I can feel my heartbeat in my temples. “You want to do it while I brush my teeth? I won’t look.”
Yep, I said that with a straight face, knowing full well that I’ll see a lot of him in the mirror—and that I’ll watch, shamelessly.
He picks up his toothbrush and squeezes some toothpaste onto it. “How about we take turns?”
Boo.
“Okay. Good idea.” I grab my toothbrush and accidently squeeze too much toothpaste onto it. “After this.”
As I activate my toothbrush, I wish it were aimed at my pussy instead of my teeth. Maybe if I burned off some of this sexual energy, I’d feel like a normal human being and would stop seeing sudsy Art images in my mind.
He brushes his teeth manually, like a caveman, which makes his strong forearm flex.
Great. Now I want to misuse my toothbrush even more.
He spits his toothpaste out. “Ladies’ shower first?”
