"My dad, scalawag he was, made it so that I wouldn't get the better end of my inheritance unless I was married. Part of the stipulation." While his eyes drifted down in a fleeting reverie to the partly caffeinated contents of the swaying of his drink, which he had got to sloshing around in his one disengaged hand to mix the milk, the other still laced with her slender fingers, that sharp brow of his keened upward in devilish arches. Saturated in the utmost toleration of his chores, he attacked the task of explaining himself but kept his eyes diverted. It made speaking from the legendary vicinity of his robust heart more elementary. Thus, he continued, wild-blue-yonder's narrowing as in a storm. "She was easy to approach about it. Known her a long time. I knew it wouldn't offend her for me to be so business like about it, since most women want a whole romantic scene from a lullaby."
Oh, but these topics which he assaulted so modestly were so much less interesting than his company. He had the urged to tug her hand toward him and gently ease into into sinking into the couch he'd already planted himself in, but, he knew that it was only the burn of the alcohol in his throat igniting the need to feel the soft, simplistic affections of an attractive, intimate woman.
"Besides," Said he, as he unearthed himself from the cushions and took the pipe into his hand to begin their ritualistic unwinding. "I'm a jerk, and I'm always going to do what I want anyway. Married or not. Voltaire once said, baby, it's the enchantment of the heart, the delight of the soul." The end was brought to his lips where they pursed, perused the antique rite of inhaling hookah smoke deeply and slowly, and finished by breathing out spearmint and gray tufts. "While physical pleasures are fleeting."