Goines On: Is today a sex day?

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The Goineses had just had sex, something they hadn’t had in weeks.
    Or was it months? Goines remembered groping Mrs. Goines more than she wanted when they were in Paris the previous year. Had that been the last time?
    They had had sex right after lunch, after a few pieces of Hershey’s milk chocolate. Chocolate was indispensable, he said aloud because of the occasion.
    They had had sex because the morning before, right after they had both gotten out of bed, Mrs. Goines had said it had been a long time, and she would like to....
    He had been agreeable, wanting always to be of service to his wife. They talked about when that day to do it, but made no specific appointment as to when. The afternoon had passed, dinner had come and gone, and when he raised the question, as they were about to sit down to stream some programs, they agreed that neither of them hardly had the energy for it after the long day. “Tomorrow, then?” he suggested, maybe now more interested in doing it than she was.
    “Yes, tomorrow,” she said.
    “For sure,” he added, for emphasis.
    And they did, and it had gone well, the Astroglide helping as usual. Astroglide was no more dispensable than chocolate, although his saliva could do in a pinch. It had gone quite well, actually, for having gone so long.
    Goines asked Mrs. Goines how often they should continue to “do it.” Weekly, every other week...?
    “Let’s go for weekly!”
    Goines grinned and nodded and said he’d put it—
    “Do not write that on the calendar!” she exclaimed.
    “No, not on the calendar, in an alarm on my phone. Timed for during lunch, so we can confirm it for that afternoon. Or not. Shall I make it every Wednesday?”
    “But what if we want to do it more often?” she had countered.
    Goines took note, wondering why it had taken her months to suggest sex yesterday. “I’ll set up an alarm for every day,” he said, “so that we’ll be reminded to discuss whether it’s a sex day. It’ll remind us without one of us having to remember.”
    He went through the alarm sounds for something appropriate. “Hillside” sounded pretty good, not shrill, kind of gentle, and its label suggested rural. Like the sex had seemed somehow, with their verdant back yard behind them as they lay coupling.
    When they got home from Costco the day after doing it, Goines had plenty of time to unload everything in time for their usual lunch preparation, but they were wiped out from shopping and agreed to postpone for half an hour, which meant that the alarm, which was set for 12:15, would sound while they were still preparing the food. Goines figured it was no matter, so he didn’t bother to reset the time on his iPhone.
    Around noon, he started preparing their salads, oblivious of the time.
    About a quarter-hour later, Mrs. Goines rushed into the kitchen holding his phone, whose alarm was sounding. “This thing scared me to death! I was standing below the attic door when it went off, and I thought something was wrong up there – with the furnace or something.”
    “Ooh,” said Goines, “I left my phone in my kangaroo pouch!”
    “You’ve got to change the alarm sound,” said Mrs. Goines.
    “I will, no problem...So, is today not a sex day?”
    “‘Sex day,’ that makes me think of Borat.”
    Sacha Baron Cohen had come up for Goines too – “Sexy time, yeah!”
    When Goines looked at the sound options again, he noticed the “Classic” option, which took him to a list of different genres of music. He listened to them one by one until he came to “Timba,” which he liked. He thought he liked it because its notes were pitched lower. He looked it up and read in Wikipedia that it was “a Cuban genre of music based on son cubano with salsa, American Funk/R&B, and the strong influence of Afro-Cuban folkloric music. Timba rhythm sections differ from their salsa counterparts, because timba emphasizes the bass drum.”
    When the alarm sounded the following day, they were both in the kitchen again still preparing lunch. Goines smiled and danced a little as he pulled his phone out of its pocket. “Hey, pretty nice, isn’t it? That’s the timba.”
    Mrs. Goines smiled. She liked the timba.
    “Ooh,” he said, “isn’t this Fireworks Day?”

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