There’s nothing like watching your man stir a tub of blood. Especially if said man is wearing only a rubber apron and jocks as he stirs, humming My Cherie Amour under his breath. The humming stops as you move closer, dipping your fingers in the blood. He smiles as you trail red fingertips across his jaw. You remember what a bloody mess your man was, the first time you laid eyes on him. You were a bloody mess yourself, all those years ago at the Zombie Walk in Vancouver.
“The consistency’s good,” you say, “but the colour’s off.” Together, you and your man parlayed that love of zombies and gore into a bloody successful business.
You lean in for a kiss. Your man, all business, reaches past you for the red 40, adding dye to the tub.
“I’ll do two more batches,” he says. “One will look right under the lights.”
He is very methodical, which is excellent for your business if not your bedroom. Times like this you wish you could bury him beneath layers of makeup and silicon, turn him back into the man he used to be.
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