Here they are, lying down flat backs against the soft mattress, eyes pointed at the white textured plaster ceiling, side by side. Not so much holding hands but alternating, taking turns, studying the other’s hand while they are speaking.
They are seeing how many jokes they can remember, one from each then back to the other, irregardless of quality. The goal is merely to have something with any kind of punchline to say when it’s your turn.
When one is talking the other gives their hand over to manipulation by the listener’s hand. Who might examine it, closely or tender or rough. They might puppet it around, flop it back and forth or make crude signs with it. Whoever’s turn it is to tell a joke, they just have to keep speaking, no matter what is going on with their hands.
They have been at it for awhile. They are laughing hard by now. What started as muffled and staunched snickers has progressed past chuckling to full blown gales and is well on its way toward guffaws.
At which point, they are one joke away from the moment when their laughter fully overtakes them. Then they are pounding their feet against the bed. Knees bent and flat soles thumping the sheets, switching back and forth in exaggerated flutter kicks and bouncing themselves up and down, up and down, straight into even harder crack-ups.
Furthermore, with so many hysterics, each of their parts have swollen to trampolining, high jumping proportions. Humor being the sexiest thing ever.