Life on the Edge
By J. Bayer
They fought like two terriers with only one pork chop between them, but she had to admit, the make-up sex more than compensated for every harsh word.
This time, their fight had ended abruptly in the backyard, next to the philodendrons and sheltering elephant ear caladiums. It was a good thing too because the neighbor’s dog was yapping at them from the other side of the chain-link fence and threatening to attract a crowd of children, who were playing in the front yard.
But they were at that perilous juncture – on the edge, so to speak – when their efforts, having caused sufficient friction to inflame their respective sexual response systems, was on the verge of setting off a ground-shaking and likely vocal climax.
Teetering, as they were, above a carnal abyss, she chanced a peek at his face – jaws clinched, eyes scrunched shut tightly – and imagined the look on her own face was mirrored in his.
The visage of a bus came to mind, balanced on the edge of a cliff, slowly, inexorably tilting toward oblivion …
She might have succumbed at that instant, had it not been for the dog’s sudden silence and the child’s question, “Whatcha doing?”