Steven Bochco Read Online Free

tell a guy who’s wearing a rug? Doesn’t it matter to them that their nipples are constantly poking out like pencil erasers and that their breasts don’t move around under their shirts when they walk? Or that when they lie on their back, their tits shoot straight up in the air like a pair of Titan surface-to-air missiles? I guess they don’t care because men don’t care. They’d rather grab a handful of phony tit than no tit at all.
    In any event, one of the great things about Vee is, she’s maybe the only woman I ever met who genuinely, unself-consciously seems to like her body as is. Of course, what’s not to like? She’s about five-eight, 125 pounds or so, with great legs, terrific breasts—not huge, but really nicely shaped, and they’re 100 percent real—and the kind of ass you try not to spend too much time looking at, because it’d be rude, but you do anyway. Plus, she’s cute. Not beautiful exactly, but not your standard American pretty, either, with blond hair, bright blue eyes, a sexy, full-face smile showing teeth just uneven enough that you know they’re real, too. If I were to give you an image to compare her against, I’d say think Meg Ryan, ten years ago.
    Perhaps now you have a little more sense of the woman Bobby follows into the bedroom, glass of wine in hand, watching as she undresses. Shoes, skirt, blouse, down to her sexy little bra and thong panties, and when those come off, Bobby picks them up off the floor and smells them.
    â€œYou’re disgusting,” Vee says.
    â€œThank you,” Bobby says back, following her into the bathroom, watching as, naked now, she leans into the stall and turns on the shower faucets. And even half-drunk, angry and humiliated as he is, he can’t help admiring her physical beauty, which he experiences as an ache. But instead of taking the opportunity to tell her he loves her, that he knows their marriage is fucked-up and he wants to try and fix it before it’s too late—in other words, instead of taking the direct approach, which at least would’ve been the grown-up thing to do—he tries to goad her into a fight by suggesting he’s kind of sweaty, too, and how about he jumps into the shower with her for a game of Lather the Lizard.
    â€œI’m not in the mood for Lather the Lizard,” Vee says, climbing into the shower. “I just want to get cleaned up, have a nice cold glass of wine, and get relaxed.”
    â€œYou’re always complaining we never have sex. Here I’m offering myself up and suddenly
you’re
the one not interested. What’s up with that?”
    By now, the steam is billowing out of the shower stall and water is spraying the front of Bobby’s clothes. “All right,” Vee says, giving in. “Take your clothes off and get in.”
    â€œNever mind,” Bobby says. “I don’t need a mercy fuck.”
    See, that’s how the really bad fights start between people. Because now Vee says, “What is the
matter
with you? Why are you like this?” which immediately takes things from the specific issue of are they going to fuck in the shower or not to the more general issue of their free-floating anger toward each other, and once you go there, watch out.
    Predictably, like the dance that it always is, Bobby says, “Why am
I
like this? Why am
I
like this? Why am I like
what
?”
    â€œLike, I don’t know—like so fucking hostile all the time.”
    â€œDid it ever occur to you maybe I’m so fucking hostile because you never show me any fucking affection, or express any fucking sympathy for the fact that I’m going through the worst miserable fucking time in my whole fucking career right now?”
    â€œOh, please.”
    â€œEver hear the concept, I love you, Bobby, let’s take a shower together, instead of me always having to feel like a fucking beggar?”
    â€œI’m not a