"You should have told me what you needed, Meg."
Sam's rummaging through his present, a new Vetelli leather toiletry case. He examines the straps and buckles. I've fortified the contents with all sorts of goodies; a Bevel shave kit complete with razor, priming oil, shaving cream, and a brush. There's also some sandalwood face balm for softening his cheeks.
"Sam, you don't have time for my little issues, what with your traveling around the world and all that."
I'm brushing my teeth, spitting in the sink, glancing at him in the mirror. We've just gotten out of bed where he pounded me breathless.
"That's total bullshit, and you know it, Meg," he retorts.
I don't argue with him. I never argue with Sam. When I finally messaged my dilemma, he came running; canceled his appointments and scribbled me into his calendar -- over and over.
"As many times as it takes," He said. "Maybe more than that." I'm nearly at due date and Sam's still fucking the shit out of me.
My hubby, Andy, still thinks the baby is his. After months without success, I checked on his sperm count; jerked him off myself for a sample of sea foam. Turns out I've been wasting money on birth control. The boy is shooting blanks. He's totally oblivious.
Sam furrows his brows. "And another thing," he continues. "Stop with the expensive birthday presents. I'm the one who buys things around here. Not you. Is that understood?"
I smirk, hanging up my toothbrush.
Sam is stirring his shaving cream with his shaving brush, leaning towards the mirror. He dabs it on his face. "I've never used one of these before."
"Who taught you how to shave, Sam? Your dad?"
"I taught myself, thank you."
"Oh. Of course, you did, Mr. self-reliant.... Sorry, Doctor self-reliant."
"Nothing wrong with being self-reliant, Meg." He finishes his dabbing. His face is a frosty froth with intermingled stubble. He picks up his razor.
I hop up on the counter directly in front of him. I'm still in my robe.
"Here, let me do that," grabbing the razor from his hand. I give it a swish in the sink where I've added hot water. Sam looks at me cautiously.
"When's the last time you shaved someone?"
"Well, it's been several years, actually." I pull Sam in close, wrap my legs around his waist. His thighs press against the counter. He's still naked. "I think it was Andy on the morning after we first fucked."
"When you were still in college?" Sam lifts his chin. I stroke the razor smoothly down the side of his face, then vigorously wash it off in the sink. I repeat.
"Yea. We had just met a few days earlier. Well, maybe that was more like thirty-six hours."
"Did you nick him at all?" Sam seems slightly agitated. Perhaps he's worried about my technique. Perhaps he doesn't want to hear about Andy.
"Not once, sweetie." I pause with a smile, then continue my work. The blade is new. The tracks of my razor are baby smooth, perfectly aligned. "I forgot how sensual this is."
"What do you mean?" Sam turns his face for me to get the other side. He tightens his lip as I work on his chin.
"Shaving a man," I reply. "Don't you like it -- for me to shave you?"
"I suppose."
"You suppose?" I hesitate, contemplating the appropriate angle of approach.
"Yes, Meg. I like it. A lot."
Sam unties my robe. He opens it widely and studies my body. My belly's protruding. My breasts are engorged. My nipples are fuchsia.
