secret saturday 2: after the date
She locked the back door and heard the murmur of the television from the den. No voices, though, giving her hope, however faint, that the children were asleep. She tossed her coat across the table and kicked off her clogs.
“Hey.” Her husband appeared in the dining room arch, back lit from the den.
“Are the kids—”
“In bed,” he interrupted. “Asleep.”
“Wow. Did you drug ‘em?”
“I thought you’d be back by eight thirty.” His voice acquired that edge. She could tell he wouldn’t be babysitting again anytime soon.
“The train was delayed. We got stuck in the tunnel.”
He palmed the dimmer, and the chandelier blared alight. She squinted.
“The website didn’t say anything,” he said stiffly.
She shrugged. “I’m shattered. You coming to bed?” She asked, knowing that he wouldn’t. She asked for form’s sake, to maintain the illusion of civility. As she slouched past him, his hand snatched her above the elbow. “Hey!”
“You were with him, weren’t you?”
“Who?”
“You know who. Wasn’t enough, I suppose, to flirt with him in the deli every day. To have drinks with him last Thursday from five to seven PM.”
“What the hell?”
“Oh, I don’t need to spy on you. Do you think everyone in this town doesn’t know everything. Do you think they wouldn’t tell me?”
“And what did the jungle drums report about tonight, then?” She wrenched her arm free, but still he blocked her path.
“I’m your husband. You owe me the truth at least.”
Something in his eyes, something she’d never seen before made her heart ricochet in her chest.
“What do you want to hear?”
“Everything.” He imprisoned her wrists in his hands. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt his palms there.
“Do you want to hear how he took my hand?”
“How? The little punk.”
She met his gaze. He released her wrists. She took one of his hands flat between both of hers, and then brushed one protruding finger against her lip. He inhaled.
“Did you let him kiss you?”
Again, the look she’d never seen. Jealousy, but something more. “I kissed him.”
“You what?”
She ran her hands up his arms, over his t-shirt, and into the line of his disheveled hair. Then she pulled his face down and kissed him—lips, breath, tongue, teeth—as they hadn’t kissed in—
“What else did he do, the bastard?”
She moved his hand under her blouse. “This.” The other hand she led round to the back of her skirt. “And this.”
He pulled her close, stiff against her. “What else? I could kill him.”
Some time later they went up to bed, exhausted, sore, sated. She felt a pang of guilt, but fleeting. He wouldn’t have minded about the truth, a drink too many with her college roommate after the play; but the illusory lover not only proved incandescent, but it also guaranteed he’d babysit again soon, willingly.
What is Secret Saturday? This piece was a little different than my usual fare. I suppose you can decide whether the change was for the good or the bad! My wildcard, like Emma Jane’s, was tunnel.
Check out the other excellent writers joining in this week:
- Emma Jane – injecting a special verisimilitude to hers!
