They are lying in bed, and sheets feel cold against her skin. She wishes she was wearing a silk-and-lace number, just like Angelina Jolie, and not a flannel pajama she got for Christmas. She runs her toe up his hairy leg. He is busy playing Angry Birds.
In the movie The Tourist that they just got through watching, both Angeline Jolie and Johnny Depp looked ravishing… no, ravenous… For her it was like sipping Black Forest Cake latte. She didn’t even touch the popcorn because it would ruin the taste, syrupy but irresistible in a 1,000-calories decadent kind of way. And then Johnny would smile his Sparrow smile, and it was like stumbling upon a candied cherry in the chocolate batter.
He has been a good sport. He, of course, announced the twist before even the main characters realized it, but that was to be expected considering what he got suckered into. And he hasn’t complained about her drooling.
She tries the foot trick again, but he can’t seem to nail all the green pigs in Angry Birds. In the last ditch attempt to get his attention, she turns onto her side and plays with the hair on his chest.
“Kiss me like Johnny Depp kissed Angelina Jolie,” she says. “Even if it was in Johnny’s dream…”
He puts the birds aside, takes his time to turn off the light and pulls her so close she can feel the entire length of his body.
“I must have missed that part,” he says, “when I was out to get the popcorn.”