She was in the bathroom, the blow-dryer blasting. Her head was back. She whipped her hair as she applied conditioner to make it shiny and bouncy.

He slipped into the bathroom and told her to close her eyes.

She did, and smiled and turned around.

He passed a mug of freshly brewed mocha java coffee under her nose.

"Smell," he said.

She did. A rapturous look came over her face.

"That's just one step away from the pearly gates of heaven."

He asked her how she envisioned heaven. When she arrived, would she be met by three poolboys with washboard abs?

"I will be met by Bruce, Denzel, George, and Brad Pitt. I shall have poolboys in every room of my mansion, handing me fresh cups of Misha's, and I will be surrounded by my flock of collies. The coffee will never be cold."
"Aaaah," he replied.
"Fields of lavender growing in the living room."
"Of course."
"And well seasoned vegetarian meals."
"There will be many seasonings."

He pictured her walking imperiously through her house. When she was in need of coffee, she'd lift up her hand, Naturally, someone would get her a cup. That's what they were there for: silent, waiting to do their mistress's bidding. She would glide from room to room in her bathrobe and her morning slippers. Men would scurry around, fluffing up the bouquets of flowers, plumping pillows, anticipating her needs.

Sensing his detachment from her picture of heaven, she said

"Of course, you'd be there, too."
"Of course," he said, doubtfully.
"And we'd have a big bed," she said. "And lots of music."
"The collies would never bark."
"This is sounding better."
"Every day would be sunny. All of my bathing suits would be black."
"And lots of cleavage. Could we have cleavage?"
"The bathing suits will have big cleavage. The nearest neighbor would live 2 miles away. We could get as loud as we wanted."
"How would I join your religion," he asked.
"Worship me," she said.
"I'm already there," he said.

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