Frank Burns stood in the open doorway of Margaret Houlihan's tent. Time for the weekly ritual. Had one week passed already? It had seemed too entirely too short of a time to be back at doing *this*.
He stepped into the tent and closed the door.
"Frank?"
(Say it once more, but don't.)
She signaled to the bed and he scooted over. Both of them were sitting, side-by-side, wringing their hands.
(The walls forced them together.)
"Margaret?"
"Yes, Frank?" she said, breathy.
His face collided into hers and they began their ritual. Clothes tugged, pulled, ripped, neither of them seem to notice they were grabbing skin with it.
The blonde's hands reached down to his lower back and pull him on top of her.
(As a child, Frankie got the mumps. Mother had him stay home from school. She put hot rags on his face to lessen the irritation. She brought him food. She cooed over him. She loved him.)
The movements began, without rythm, but quickly, as it did the weeks before, picked up it's sad beat. Frank's face was pressed into the pillow, concentrating on what he was supposed to do. Back, fourth, back, fourth, never looking up. His breath turned ragged. Sweat stinged his eyes. Back, fourth, back, fourth, don't stop.
If he stopped, she would stop. Stop talking to Frank, sitting with Frank, eating with Frank, loving Frank.
(Most doctors say that the youngest child is most rebellious. Not Frankie. His brother would track mud through the house. Not Frankie. Frankie was a tidy little boy. His brother would get demerits at school. Not Frankie. Frankie was a hall monitor. His brother gave Mother headaches. Not Frankie. Frankie got Mother medicine for her headaches. Frankie helped Mother with baking and the dishes. Mother didn't like that. She didn't care. Frankie.... )
"Frank!"
Almost done for tonight.