“Do you know what your credit rating is?”
“No. Probably low.”
“Isn’t it weird that that’s one of the only numbers people get assigned, measured by? Most people have some idea what their credit rating is. Maybe what their IQ is too. But the world doesn’t really measure us any other way. How good we are with money. It’d be interesting if loans were approved by IQ. Or…I don’t know. Penis size.”
She slipped a hand just below his waist line, her fingers drumming his hipbones, and she readjusted her head on his chest. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
They tried to keep their laughter down. They’d woken her roommates a couple of times already, and it was getting late. “Vagina depth, that’s a number we should all know. ‘Oh no, you’ll never get a loan approved with that cavernous vagina of yours.’” She squealed, then tried to stifle the sound with his skin. This was their pillow talk, the first of it, before it became common and then was quieted by television or music or something else. They had not kissed yet. “We should take a bath together.”
“You’re mental, it’s four in the morning. They’d kill me. Plus, my shower doesn’t have a bath. It’s one of those flat showers. We’d be laying in a puddle at best.”
“We can improvise. How big’s your kitchen sink?”
