We Need To Do Something About This

You’d think that after three decades it wouldn’t matter. Life goes on as it has gone on. It’s a good life. Kids gone and time to savor the moment-to-moment joy of love and a good marriage. Simple as that.

Then she pulls one of her stunts. This time it was really unfair. A normal Monday night. We’d had a nice dinner and while she was checking in on our daughter and the new baby, I sat in my favorite chair in the living room reading. One of the crime novels I use to relax. My indulgence is a brandy. That and the ottoman and a few chocolates.

I was nice and comfortable, and my mind was trying to figure out whose the second body was when I heard a throat clearing. Removing my reading glasses, I turned to the entrance. She was leaning, let me say “provocatively,” against the entrance. Nothing but a black bra, black panties, and black heels. And a strand of white pearls draped around her long neck.

I couldn’t move. I mean I literally could not move as she sidled toward me, hips moving impossibly. I dropped the glasses and when she reached me she took the book, flinging it over her shoulder to I-did-not-care. Her eyes and her smile lowered slowly down from my face. Then they stopped. Without looking up, she announced, “We need to do something about this.”