My wife will do whatever I ask of her. My balls are so tight and bloated, I’m gonna self-detonate and impregnate myself.
“Next weekend,” I tell Karen and disconnect, then gather up the dishes and put them in the sink. I stare at them for a few moments before opening the faucet and rinsing. “Do we have a dishwasher?” I ask. I’ve lived here for three years. It’s my permanent residence, though one wouldn’t know that if they watched me in my kitchen while I try to be more domestic and therefore more approachable.
Benedetta stands, but I lift my palm. “Sit. I got this.” I find the dishwasher that I swore was just another cupboard at the bottom and load the dishes, then stare at them again before closing the door. There’s buttons. I press On.
“You should wait until tonight so it’s full.”
I press Off. “Got it.” Though, I think I might take my wife to dinner tonight. I’ll decide later.
“Let’s walk the dog,” I announce, feeling accomplished. I’ve spent over an hour with my wife, and she hasn’t stabbed me yet.
“Um, he doesn’t like to be walked.”
“What kind of a dog doesn’t like to be walked?”
“The kind that’s lived on a short metal leash with barbed collars, and the only time the previous owners walked him was when they wanted him to breed a bitch.”
“He had a problem breeding females or…?”
“He’s seven months old, and the females were much older and aggressive. They’d bite him, and when he couldn’t breed them the owners beat him.”
“Do we know who these owners are?”
“We do.”
“Who are they?”
She clears her throat. “Maybe if you try, he’ll walk with you.” She hands me the leash.
She evaded my question. I’m gonna leave it be and find the owners myself. “Let’s try, then. No leash. Our dog can do whatever he wants within the property.”
“I’ll be a sec,” she says as she walks out and climbs the steps.
“Where are you going?”
“To get dressed.”
Why?lingers at the tip of my tongue. As I had just pointed out, we live on private property where a dog or any humans can do whatever they want. But I sit back down at the kitchen table and decide I’ll wait.
I can’t believe my wife wants me to get a mistress. Most guys might’ve been thrilled. I’m not thrilled. I’m offended. Unless…unless she thinks I’m ugly, or maybe, and this one is likely, she thinks I’m too old. Since my wife isn’t looking at me the way most women look at me—with lust or, at the very least, admiration of my handsome older-dude looks, my bet’s on old. It doesn’t help that I look slightly older than I actually am.
I stride to the bathroom and lean in over the sink. Gray hairs show above my ears. There’s two wrinkles at the corners of my eyes when I smile. But I have a prominent dimple on my chinthat women tend to notice first and fixate on. My wife hasn’t once looked at it.
My green eyes look almost gray, making me feel too old, even though I’m definitely not. Thirty-eight is practically the start of life for most guys.
The ones who married earlier than I.
The ones who already have kids in their teens.
The ones who have one or more mistresses and are “happily” married until they’re not married anymore.
Benedetta’s youth is affecting my self-image. That’s not her problem but mine, so I’m gonna work extra hard for her affection. I pull back my shoulders. “You are a sexy beast, Hudson.” I take off my shirt, flex my biceps, kiss one. “Super sexy.” I hit my chest. “Smooth hard abs. The Manchester not United.” Women love the chest. My wife is a woman; therefore, when she comes down those stairs, she’ll stare straight at my chest, maybe want to touch said chest.
I leave the bathroom and stand by the door.
I keep standing there, starting to tap my foot, and check the clock. What the fuck is taking so long?
I wait. I’d rather not have to wait right now, but it’s not like I’m going places or having things to do. Jesus, this time off is gonna take some getting used to. I check the clock. It’s ten ten.
