Our afternoon is spent reminiscing and catching up. She’s soon to be divorced, and fills me in on all the hassle her expletive-worthy husband is causing her. We giggle our way through a small fortune of food and wine. It hurts our pockets but tastes delicious. By the end of dessert, my laugh echoes off the walls, and the room tilts a fraction. For the first time in weeks, I forget to feel guilty.
Terry is waiting up for me when I get home. The lights are low, the TV glow highlighting his face, and his bowl of chips balance on his stomach as he dives in for another handful.
I almost smile. The scene is so familiar, one that used to bring me comfort. But the warmth dies as soon as the smell of grease hits my nostrils.
The bubble of fun and laughter from my girls’ night pops. Evaporating like water on a hot plate.
I don’t want another fight. Another discussion. Not tonight, and if I’m honest, not ever. Even his silence makes the air thick with what we’ve stopped saying aloud.
“Who’s winning?” I ask. My words tumble out surrounded by alcohol fumes. He turns to me, eyes blazing. Before standing and marching around the sofa to meet me as I stumble into the living room.
“You’ve been drinking?” he says, his voice quiet. “The doctor said…”
My hand flies forward up to stop him mid-sentence, screeching to a halt just shy of his nose, before coughing into my elbow. I snap my head back toward him, my eyes narrowing to slits as I consider what to say. Any words coated in acid will do. All I know is, I want it to slice his heart wide open. Beneath the alcohol and rage, a whisper tells me I’m being cruel, but it’s drowned out by the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.
“Don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do!” I spit. “One afternoon. One fucking afternoon!” I look down at my watch. The hands swirl, then click into place. “Okay, one afternoon and evening of letting my hair down, and you’re going to tell me off? Meanwhile, you’re sitting on your ass filling yourself with sugar and fat.”
“Amz,” he mumbles, holding his hands up in surrender. “This isn’t the time to be having this argument. We can talk in the morning. Let me help you to bed.” He walks toward me andwraps one arm around my shoulders then leads me to our bedroom. As we cross the threshold, the mountains of wine and sweet treats I’ve consumed today decide to reappear. My body convulses, and I promptly spew into the huge plant pot at our bedroom door. “Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck have you been doing all day?” Thick fingers pinch at a puckered brow. “Actually, I fucking know.”
I stand in front of my husband, head in my hands, and let the tears fall. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. Without a word, he directs me to the bathroom and lifts my dress over my head then strips my underwear from my clammy skin. He turns on the shower, and within minutes, steam fills the room.
I don’t look at him, I can’t.
“Get in the shower,” he orders.
I do as I’m told.
Taking off his clothes, he steps in behind me. The water running over my skin is warm and heavy. My eyes drift shut.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he whispers. “I’m going to wash your hair.”
He lifts the purple bottle from the metallic shelves next to the tap and squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his palm before placing it back down and rubbing the cream between his hands.
“Turn to face me,” he says. With strong fingers, he massages the liquid into my scalp, piling my long hair on top of my head. The bubbles run down my face, and I blink them away. He takes the showerhead from the stand and rinses the soap, then repeats the process with conditioner. “That’s it. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Bed,” I purr, suddenly feeling awake and horny. Terry leans across me and switches off the water. I kiss his cheek then wrap my fingers around his cock, and he hardens. “I know what I’d like to do to you in bed,” I whisper. “Will you put a baby inside me, darling? Pin me to the bed until I’m properly impregnated. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Me, barefoot and pregnant, in the kitchen.”
Shaking his head, he half-chuckles under his breath, removes my hand from his cock and leads me from the cubicle before wrapping me in a huge blue towel, the fabric warm against my cheek.
“I’ve been trying to put a baby inside you for years,” he says, forlorn.
“Fancy trying again tonight?” I flash him the brightest smile I can, half-cut, and open my towel wide to shake my breasts. “We could try one of the moves you were looking up online, then I could do a handstand for ten minutes to be sure your swimmers get there.”
“As appealing as all that sounds, you’ll be sleeping when your head hits the pillow,” he says. “Brush your teeth then straight to bed.”
I huff audibly. “All right, Dad,” I mutter. Annoyance flickers over his face.
The minty freshness of the toothpaste is welcome on my sour tongue. I scrub furiously at my teeth and gums, spitting into the sink when I’m done. Terry pours ruby-red mouthwash into a tumbler and passes it to me. I take it in my mouth and swirl the liquid around. As I evict it into the sink, the white ceramic looks pink-streaked. I watch it spiral down the drain, feeling strangely connected to the disposed liquid. Used up and washed away.
My brain wobbles, and I close my eyes to stop the sway.
“Bed,” Terry says again from behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders.
Our king-size bed fills the room in our pokey apartment. It’s solid oak with a tall headboard, which extends up the wall. The duvet and pillows are a soft blue and white check, giving the space a New England feel. A massive mirror hangs on the wall adjacent to the bed. I love that mirror.
When I’m riding my husband, it’s erotic to watch myself move on top of him. Being on top is the perfect position?I can seehim and see my reflection at the same time. We’ve had so many memorable times between these sheets. Now, the idea makes me nervous instead of naughty.
I crawl under the blanket and drift off into a dreamless sleep before the room fully settles.
