Working on it.

She went on the television to talk about that thing what she wrote.
She wore a dress that he ain't never seen; like maybe she borrowed that from her sister.
She purred and cooed out there but said smart stuff too like she does but still wore a dress that he ain't never seen; like maybe she borrowed that from her sister.
"Good morning, Prickly Pear," she says, fishing a clump of cat hair from his beard and spit-slicking his impertinent, dangerous bangs.
"You see me on the tele?" she asks, juggling tenderly the various paths in and out of his body holes.
He did.
She's just about there.
When they were your age they both saw themselves there. They might use the moon's gravity, scream around the far side, and skid to a sloppy stop in the puddle of old and done.
“Not doing this without you,” she says.
She scratches her nose.
He thinks he wishes he’d counted the times she’d scratched a nose what don’t itch.
“Working on it,” he tells her. “Working on it.”