They can hear the excited shouts of her husband as he leans into the television, his nose pressed almost to the glass, his hands working furiously on the new joystick of the new video game system he has purchased at the giant American mall.

Her husband is interested only in technology and things. The translator is interested in her. Very, very interested, from the moment they were all introduced and then even more as they strolled through the mall, talking together in a mixture of his tongue and her tongue, the translator imagining a shared mixing of tongues, looking at clothing and books and of course, for her husband, the video games, discussing the names of objects and colors, differences in grammar, the posters in the windows of the half-naked models, and from there, our American preoccupation and fear of sex. The translator liked that part best, talking with her about American sex while her husband salivated over American stuff.

She purchased some clothes, a few outfits a little less Iron-curtain than what she had arrived in, though the translator believed she looked wonderful as was, would look wonderful in anything, had told her so in one of her husband's many distracted moments, and had taken great pride in her little flush of pleasure. Her husband, on the other hand, saw no need to look anything but the part he was already playing, and barely grunted each time his wife emerged from a dressing room, not even sparing a whistle for the little black cocktail dress slit all the way up to somewhere you couldn't possibly pronounce, or for the blouse that practically disappeared when the light was just so. She had been visibly disappointed, until she noticed the translator, a step behind and a head taller than her husband, silently applauding and giving her a quick thumbs up. She'd given a little jaunt at that, an extra little swing of the hip and a winking look back over her shoulder as she turned that her husband, had he been paying any attention, would have assumed was for his benefit.

They had eaten dinner at the mall as well. The husband, predictably, had wanted fast food from the food court. The translator, though it was certainly not his standard policy, had offered to pay for all of them and had steered them to the dimly lit microbrewery with the tall backed booths and had managed through subtle manipulation to end up sitting next to her.

He did not try anything, and neither did she. There was no secretive fondling under the table, no footsy, not even faked accidental hand contact. But there was a definite sense of closeness, of warmth, of hip to hip, the sharing of the meal, and beyond, just beyond, an undefined but definitely detectable shared sense of purpose and understanding that the immediate future held more in store, and was promising them great pleasure.

After dinner they wandered through the mall and then waited outside for a bus. Neither of them owned a car or was likely to be able to get a license any time soon, and while the translator could have driven them in his car it is his job to help them learn their way around, so he had driven to their apartment building and then walked with them to the bus stop, getting to know them both on the ride to the mall, taking an instant liking to the wife, who was shy and beautiful, warm and sweet, and an instant disliking to the husband, who was basically a boor.

There was only one seat left on the bus home. The husband sat in it and reluctantly agreed to take charge of all the bags, then promptly rooted around for the manual for his new video game which he proceeded to stare at for the entire ride home while the translator and the wife stood, talking quietly, mostly in her language, a little in English, shifting closer and closer as they rode and talked.

The translator got off the bus with them and helped the wife carry the bags to the apartment, and then in the door of the apartment, while the husband, who did not carry things, ranted various semi-sensical observations about the mall while accompanying himself with grandiose hand gestures. As soon as they were in the apartment the wife disappeared into the bedroom with her bags and the husband started trying to set up the video game, with very little success, despite having spent all that time on the bus studying a manual that was mostly pictures. The translator sighed to himself audibly, and then took over, setting up the game quite nicely in under 5 minutes, which got him a faint grunt of appreciation from the husband.

His obvious duties done, the translator went to look for the bathroom, which took him past the bedroom and the open bedroom door where the wife was carefully laying her new clothes on the bed, admiring them, thinking perhaps of trying them on. He watched her quietly for a minute, unseen, before proceeding to the bathroom.

On the way back he walked on tiptoe, not completely sure why, but with a silent thrill in his gut of treasures yet to be seen, too tempted to even ask himself if doing so was a good idea, stopped just outside the door and was rewarded by a flash of pale skin, of a tight stomach and a round ass, of a golden blur of blond pubic hair quickly covered by the short black cocktail dress as she shimmied into it, smoothed it down, shook out the blond hair on her head, stood in front of the mirror on the low dresser, turning back and forth, admiring how she looked with no underwear, no bra, just the dress he had admired her in.

He made a noise then, as though he had just seen her, a noise loud enough for her to turn, to see him, to smile. He smiled back, repeated the thumbs up he had given her in the store, waited for a second hoping for a sign, took the slight twist of her head as an invitation, a come-hither, and stepped across the threshold of the door, out of the illusion of professional detachment into the forbidden future of her bedroom and the very now.

They can hear the excited shouts of her husband as he leans into the television, his nose pressed almost to the glass, his hands working furiously on the new joystick of the new video game system he has purchased at the giant American mall.

They stand but a second staring into each other’s eyes before they are on each other, arms around each other, mouth to mouth, lip to lip, tongue to tongue, eager and growling and moaning, his hands lifting the hem of the dress back up to her hips revealing again her ass and her golden pubic hair, this time to his roaming, squeezing, hands, which are on her hips, lifting her back on to the dresser, her legs rising wrapping around him, her hands fumbling but determined with his pants, his erection springing free, seeking the soft warm wet embrace of her naked cunt, entering her with a grunt that escapes them both. their mouths still locked, their hips already moving with astonishing urgency, the pent up mind fucking of an entire day released in one glorious sequence of total carnality, the awareness of her husband, of his video game obsession, of the concurrency of his playing, of the sounds of his excitement only adding to their own lust, to every fantasy they have had of each other, in and out, back and forth, the dresser banging into the wall with the intensity and insanity of their thrusting, the husband shouting louder, the wife's heels banging against the translator's ass, their grunts becoming more and more savage until they come, come, come, come, gasping and clawing at each other as he spurts into her and she contracts around him, the both of them crying out in both their languages.

And still, ten feet from the bedroom where the wife and the translator hold each other panting endearments into each other's ears the husband, with his new American stuff, plays on.