He slips out of his shoes and steps into the bathtub, turning on the shower fully-clothed (except, of course, for the shoes) because she'd told him to.

Graham. Do it. Do it or I'll bake Tobes for dinner.

It was convincing enough. Graham soaped his neck and face, lost in thought. It wasn't bad. It was like hot rain. But he wasn't going to turn it into a habit. When he was through and stepped out, he fels his pants sag in a soppy lump farther down his waist than he'd ever intended them to go. His shirt stuck to his skin like a suction cup. It made an unpleasant sucking sound when he pulled it away.

A trail of water followed him to his bedroom where, of course, she sat waiting for him. Stretched out along his bed with Graham's old schapso mutt, Toblerone, Mindy lowered her magazine and made a face.

"I didn't know you'd gone outside. Is it raining?" She inclined her head toward the closed blinds.

Graham opened his creaky closet door and pulled out a new, less clingy shirt.

"I didn't. I just prefer my dog off my dinner plate."