"Quakenbush is peeping again."

Jimmy exhaled, arm behind his head, wrist dangling off the bed, flicking ashes.

"You know what to do."

She sat straight up on top of him, knees at his ribs, then leaned back to slide her pelvis in his mess, rising and lapping at his length with her hood, teasing the tip in the cleft of it.

"You're getting fatter," she declared. "You're gonna need thirty-fours soon, Jimmy. You keep eating your things with mayo, ain't mayo raw eggs anyway?"

"Not about my mayo, you got it all wrong, cooking carbs all the time, you’re just prolonging the inevitable with carbs."

"What inevitable?"

"Carbs. Carbs just turn to fat anyway, you read things and you look at the fat, but you don't pay attention to the carbs."

"Carbs don't have cholesterol." She bore down, grinding harder, reaching around behind her and beneath her, in the stickiness, pressing him against her, breasts shaking in her bra. He reached up to pull one out, tugging at the cup, snapping the elastic.

Jimmy was tapping on the wall behind him.

"What the hell is this house made of, masonite?"

"Masonite's luggage."

"No, that's Samsonite."

"What is it?"

“What? Masonite?”

“Masonite.”

"Some kind of pressed wood." He pushed into her.

"Carbs," she said.

"You know Quakenbush, Mose Tolliver, the folk artist, painted on Masonite."

"Is that a fact?" Quakenbush called into the window.

"That's a fact. With regular household paint, no less, he was known for how he used shit materials to make beautiful things."

Jimmy lit another cigarette, then tapped on the wall again, thinking about the sound, the strange quality of it. It might not have been masonite, but it wasn't anything natural either. He didn’t know what the hell it was.