"John," Marcia uttered as she promenaded into the illuminated dawn chamber of his domestic residence, her scarletine frock contrasting unfavorably against the embossed verdant wall coverings as might an exceedingly vexatious digit. "I am obliged to converse with you directly."
Ah, the female for whom he sustained strong emotions, John contemplated. Ostensibly Marcia was manifest to expound on that which he could not readily diagnosticate, yet nevertheless accepted in the bowels of his cardiac region would be a theorem of vital consequence to her. "Do specify whatever currently seizes you with such macroscopic anxiety, much beloved desideratum of my concupiscence."
"I have discovered it to be virtually impossible to discern the definition of the majority of the statements issued from your oral cavity," Marcia declared with her customary forthright emphasis as she arranged her lithesome frame on the brink of the alabaster brocade-upholstered divan. "Even during those tension-wrought episodes of debate which customarily result in illicit yet satisfying coition, my comprehension of your utterances is nil."
John's eyelids met and parted in a solitary displacement. "I entreat your forbearance?"
Marcia crimped the cosmetic-coated labium camouflaging her maxillary and mandibular arcades prior to offering verbally, "Our exchanges have set me adrift on the oceans of ignorance. Cognizance eludes me during those occurrences when we confer. Misinterpretation has evolved into the bete noire of my perseity."
A crease made itself recognizable in the juncture between the strips of hair above John's ocular organs. "Please, expand on these articulations."
"I can't stand saying another freaking word of this dialogue."
John caprioled to an erect stance. "Discontinue your tirade forthwith."
"No, I will not shut up." Tired of parking her appendages on the bony parentheses flanking her nether regions, Marcia planted her hands on her hips. "I don't care how big and important the words are, these are the stupidest lines I've ever been written to recite. I mean, say. Yours are even dumber. You may have a yummy body and smell great, but every time you open your mouth I want duct tape, ear plugs and amphetamines. By the way, the wallpaper in here looks like cat puke."
"Oh, sure. Like I want to keep pretending to be interested while you're heretoforing and postliminarying every five seconds. I had nuns in Catholic school who talked sexier. And I didn't pick out the damn wallpaper." John skipped sensing the rosiness of rage altering the coloration of his facial features and simply turned red. "Anyway, the author initiated . . . started it."
Marcia began to contemplate the dilemma, caught herself in mid-ponder, and grabbed John by the front of the shirt. "Look. I like you. I want to do something else besides resemble a sore thumb and recite Roget chapter and verse. What do you say?"
"I say let's go have relations."
"For dinner?" Marcia tapped her finger against the part of her body she never wanted to hear anyone call labium again. "Oh, coition, riiiiiiight. Do we have enough time?"
"The author's busy looking up a four-syllable synonym for argument. She'll be a while," John said, chucking all the non-said dialogue tags under the sofa cushions. "We can change the page numbers while she's gone. She never back reads."
"We'll still have to make it look good," Marcia warned. "You know, struggle with some post-coital feminist-related depression issues, endure a bit of non-fatal substance abuse and obliquely sneer at some chick-lit author who makes more money than ours does. May have to set fire to your Beamer, too, in order to free you from the capitalist enslavement preventing you from truly experiencing life, or something equally nonsensical yet intensely symbolic."
"I'm insured," John pointed out. "So, can we make like bunnies?"
"Works for me." She dragged him out of the parlor.