Firelight sputters in the hearth as Tom pulls away from Giselle on the bearskin rug, his face drawn into a pout.
“It’s not you, Giselle, it’s just…”
“What?” she says, eyes wide, “you used to like hanging out with me, telling me how thin I was compared to other girls…”
“I still think you’re thin, it’s just – “
“What???”
“I mean, we’ve been spending sooo much quality time together since my injury, and – “
“—and what, you’re sick of me, is that what you’re trying to say?”
“No, not exactly, but just how much canoodling can one super-couple do? I mean, enough already, right? The long romantic nights on the French riviera, the shopping for matching uber-couple outfits., the photo-opps in Rome, I just can’t take it any more -- ”
She starts to tear up. “You don’t love me...”
“I do, honey, I just..” He pulls out a football-shaped pillow and hugs it absently. “I miss the guys, you know? Those early morning practices…the dew on the lawn…”
“Oh, so you want to be knocked shitless on a grassy field somewhere?” Giselle grabs her clothes and jumps to her feet, scattering champagne bottles and caviar. “I can arrange that, you know. I’ll just make a couple of calls. Hell, I’ll do it myself – “
“No!! No, Giselle, not the knee!!! Aaaaghhghghghghh!”
