“So,” says Rosario Dawson, holding up a Rodarte dress she picked up somewhere in the fashion district, “What’s for dinner?”
“Well,” I say, adjusting my cufflinks and staring with unfixed attention at or near Ad Reinhardt ‘s Black Painting which hangs on the wall, “I have beef tenderloin I rubbed with a black pepper and Indian-ish spice mix that’ll only take 45 minutes, but I can’t think of a good salad.”
“I can make a quick fava and romano bean thing with basil,” she replies, and turns so I may help her with the zipper and small clasp.
“I suppose if we had one of the angels whip up a little herbed bulgur with almonds and some merlot we’d almost have ourselves a dinner, then,” I smile, and look at my wife as she fastens first one earring and then the other, her large eyes unfocused.
“We might,” she says, finishing with her earrings and then adjusting the knot of my tie with her slender fingers.
I take her hands in my hands (not like when we doing Titanic, but just sliding my thumbs into her palms and laying my fingers over her knuckles) and I kiss her fingertips clumsily. “We probably should have waited to get dressed if we’re going to be making dinner,” I point out.
“You are a silly, silly goose,” she replies, kissing me on each cheek and then the tip of my nose. “We can’t get our clothes dirty because we’re in Heaven.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m retarded,” I say with a shake of my head, turning her toward the standing mirror, admiring her admiring me admiring her and then the both of us admiring us, Rosario and Justin, the happiest couple in West Heaven, looking sharp as a couple of tacks.
“Let’s make dinner,” I say with a smile and a flourish of my arm.
“Indeed, let’s,” she replies with a small bow, taking my proffered arm in hers, and that is exactly what we do.
And we look damned good doing it, too.
