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Rain pelted against the windows in a steady rhythm, accompanying the sounds of an old, well treasured record playing on a phonograph. As vintage notes filled the small living room, Spy and Scout’s mother danced in circles. Spy held her waist gently with one hand and her soft, delicate hand with the other. Meanwhile she rested her free hand on his shoulder, fingers feeling the fine weave of his vest. Occasionally she would brush her hand around the back of his head, still masked, as if stroking his hair.
“Ah, mon petit chou-fleur , tu es belle ce soir,” Spy sighed.
“You’re pretty handsome yourself,” Scout’s mother rested her head against his chest as they swung to the music.
Spy smiled, a genuine smile, one rarely shown back at the base or, god forbid, in the middle of work. He shut his eyes and whispered, “Mon cheri…”
“My cherry.”
He snorted. “That joke shall never get old, will it?”
“You still remember?” She tilted her chin. “Back when we were first dating, and I called you that? When I thought that’s what ‘mon cheri’ meant?”
“How could I forget? The look on your face when I translated--” He chuckled.
“Well, I’d say I came pretty close. Figured it was either that or ‘my love’, something like that.”
“You wouldn’t be the first lover to make that mistake. Not all of them have been as charming as yours, however.”
“Like how?”
Spy bit his tongue to fight against his laughter, and said, “The bushman called me ‘my chair’ on one occasion.”
“My chai--pfft--oh my god--” She burst out laughing, and Spy could hold back his own no longer. Their dance fell apart as they bent over, laughter overpowering the music.
“Although,” She wiped a tear from her eye, “it suits you, in a way.”
“Oh? I was not aware I resembled furniture without my disguise kit.” He looked up, surprised to find her eyes half lidded and a sly smile on her face. With the grace of a snake charmer, she backed him up until the back of his knees hit the couch, and he sat down. She climbed on top until she sat in his lap with her arms around his neck.
“See?” She said. “You’re my chair now.”
He blinked, cutely confused for a split second, before his eyebrows shot up. He didn’t bother holding back his laughter this time, snorting loudly and resting his forehead on her shoulder.
“You alright, hon?” She patted his back. “I haven’t heard you laugh this hard in ages.”
“Laughing myself to death with you sounds like a wonderful way to go,” Spy lifted his head as the last of his snorts died.
“Not yet, I hope. The night’s still young.”
“But of course, mon cheri,” Spy slipped his hands around her waist. “Or would you prefer ‘my cherry’?”
“Whatever you want, but tonight, you’re my chair.” She tapped him on the nose.
“As you wish,” He kissed her, and whispered her name.