I descended into the living groggily and stopped on the fifth stair from the bottom. Gerry and Marianne were fucking on the couch.
Now I guess this isn't all that shocking. The sexual tension between those two had been on the rise for some time now. Marianne was cute; her slender limbs were porcelain from never seeing the sun, and her mane of curly dark hair shook when she spoke in excited tones. (Which was often, because she studied sociology: the science of getting excited by recognizing basic patterns.) Now, Gerry wasn't all that much to look at if you ask me. He was lanky dude with a blond mop for a haircut, a square jaw, and a serious common sense deficiency. He missed his first day of engineering because he didn't realize his classes were in different buildings. But he's a decent enough guy, I guess. We all moved in together in second year, and I noticed the connection even then.
I mean, it was hard not to notice: the casual flirting when they were preparing their dinners in our small kitchen, or the secret smiles to each other when we all watched TV on the couch, or the emergence of tawdry innuendo on alcohol-fuelled nights. They probably didn't know it, but what was unfolding this morning as I was about to grab breakfast and head to my first class, was inevitable.
But what was surprising was the squalid tableau: there they were, both porcelain limbs and lanky, wet with sweat, engorged with lust, smelling of sex, and most importantly: covered with what appeared to be peanut butter and chocolate. Marianne was wearing a violet-coloured strap-on dildo also.
Half-empty condoms lay gasping on the coffee table and floor, punctuated by wrappers for Reese peanut butter cups. The stairs, as they always did, announced my arrival with pronounced creaks.
I could see Marianne's grip on Gerry's shoulders tighten as I made eye contact with her. Gerry raised his head like a helium balloon loosened from a child's grip. He wore an expression of fatigue and pain and shame. As their mechanistic fucking screeched to a nervous and self-conscious halt, I made my way past the couch to the kitchen to fetch breakfast.
The couch springs had been silenced. The room that was erstwhile filled with moans, grunts, and the slap of sex toys against sphincters, was now overpowered by trivial noises spilling from the kitchen: the scrape of ceramic bowls sliding apart and the gentle thud of a cereal box placed on the counter. Listening carefully, you could even detect the heavier strike of raisins amid the flakes of bran as they fell into the empty bowl.
I poured the milk, found a spoon, and lifted the bowl.
Turning back to the living room, I noticed the two hadn't moved an inch. Now, I normally eat in front of the TV, but I thought it better to avoid this vista of peanut butter, chocolate and sex.
As I passed the couch, I looked directly into my bowl and pulled a spoonful of cereal to my mouth.
"We're breaking up, Marianne."
As I ascended you could hear a sigh and the telltale creak of the steps.
