#itchy

on

One of them has intricate strappy sandals that they fumble at in anticipation of their removal, gratefully peeling up the sticky leather and attacking where they've clung to the skin.

The other eagerly bunches down long black socks, throws them across the room, pausing to dig at the impressions up their calf before the stings of jealous itches compel them to stop and free the other.

One of them eases out of a skirt and claws at their legs to shoo away all the little rustles of fabric that have made them jump and shudder throughout the day as the fabric clung to another sweaty patch. And that's to say nothing of the way the pinchy waistband dug, leaving red circling impressions to scratch.

The trousers could have perhaps been forgiven if they hadn't done so much to shield the already too-thick oppressive socks, and done their own work to trap the heat so restrictively. Anyhow they're scuffed from the too-smooth soles of their shoes scrubbing at the legs all day. To the floor with them.

Oh, and how has it not been addressed before this moment? A suit coat and dress shirt at long last doffed after hours of trying maddeningly to scrabble through them to itches resting undisturbed at the small of the back and directly between the shoulder blades. They had to stop themselves several times from attacking with a salad or cake fork, tines teasing them through the meal.

Even uncovered they can't reach parts to their satisfaction and, contorting, beg their partner to scratch. They pause in freeing themself from their own torments. They start too low to be fully satisfying, even the beginning of rough nails on skin is enough to start their partner groaning, though they quickly urge them up as the itch between their shoulders stretches eagerly feeling the other nerves fire. It's not words that escape their mouth as the hands move up and circle the skin, more blissful guttural groaning as its subdued.

They feel terrible they can't catch themself from whining when their partner stops, and worse when the realize why. The bra drops and there are pinkish symmetric lines down their shoulders and back where the too-tight thing had sat in the heat. They quickly dig their nails into the parts that look the worst and remember reading somewhere something odd about the nerves in some people's left shoulderblades. Their noises had been nothing compared to the sound that emerges their partner. They modulate a bit as they scrape across the other lines, but heighten each time they circle back to the left.

They watch their shows together that evening, as they always do, though tonight the routine is a bit different in that throughout they alternate scratching the other, the switch coming when one becomes too distracted with their own pestering itches to continue. Each time the switch occurs the phrase repeats in deep sincerity

"Ohhh, I love you."