Shared Desires
I carry the tray with tea and fruit to the foot of the bed, and I can already hear the murmur that precedes the storm: Demon, his voice hoarse, claiming that the only sensible option for the afternoon is an action movie, the kind that sounds like it was written by someone with an unhealthy addiction to explosions; and John, lying back with his hair still damp from the bath I forced him to take, insisting that what we need is an animal documentary, narrated by a British voice and backed by calming music, so we can relax.
“If I want to relax,” says Demon, stretching an arm toward the remote, “I’m not going to do it by watching a bunch of penguins slip on the ice.”
“Funny, I thought you were th
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