Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone kneeled with her right knee on the polished oak wood flooring facing a floor-to-ceiling mirror, her left foot, clothed in a thick grey sock that ran up to the middle of her thigh, was flat to the floor. Her right hand gripped the steel knobbed bar of a twenty-pound dumbbell which she was curling. The veins bulged from the back of her hand up her right forearm. She balanced herself with her left arm supported by her left hand on her waist. The red tank top exposed the musculature which was starting to compete with her almost firm breasts. Madonna watched each curl of her arm intently, feeling the burn and vowing to beat this thing called age. She glanced at her face and briefly, in a flash, saw an old woman. She shut her eyes, shook her head, and glanced again. OK. Good. Back again to the image she preferred.
Guy sat on a metal folding chair, a bottle of Bass Ale dangling between his right index and middles fingers, his elbows on knees. Guy Ritchie wore grey slacks, a white t-shirt and was barefoot.
"You have to go on in an hour," said Guy.
"I know." Madonna did not skip a beat with her curls.
"Aren"t you cutting it close?" asked Guy.
Madonna moved the dumbbell to her left hand in the reverse position, picking one knee up and dropping the other.
"I'll make it."
"Is this really necessary? The workout, now, just so your arms a tad more pumped?" Guy took a swig of Bass.
"We've had this discussion. I don't like re-discussing things, Guy." Madonna got this out with some heavy breathing, her tension rising with each pump of the dumbbell.
"Well, tough. Re-discussing things is what I do. And you need to hear some things several times to hear it even once," Guy said with irritation.
Madonna drops the dumbbell on the oak floor, making a loud thudding bang. She rises, hands propped on waits, and faces Guy.
"We'll discuss this after the Grammies are over, after the party tonight, and maybe after we get back to England. I don't want to discuss it now. I have to perform. Which, by the way, is not something you've done with any success recently." Madonna wipes the sweat building on her forehead.
"You talking about sex?"
"I don't care about sex. I'm thinking about your career, what you do, or used to do."
"Oh, fuck you, Madgey Wadgey. I don't have a career anymore because I am always managing being your husband. That's what I do."
"That's your choice, Guy. That's your choice." Madonna turns and walks out of the room.
Guy glances over at the mirror. He smiles, thinking that he is ten years younger than his wife. Ten years. He has that. He's got those ten years on her. And there is nothing she can do about that.