Page 118 of Married to Number 22
She always does.
And, sure enough, before my fingers reach the panel to shut the garage door, she’s there, a foot behind me, floral scent in my nose.
It’s intoxicating.
It’s fucked up.
But that’s Courtney and me—fucked up to the nth degree.
Stifling a sigh, I push into the house, walk into the kitchen, and turn around, preparing to tell her to go.
“I want a divorce.”
My mouth falls open and before I can close it, she launches herself into my arms?—
And kisses me.
And the worst part? I kiss her back.
Faye
I whip around, tearing my eyes from the beautiful man.
From the beautiful manandthe woman who showed up, strolled in, and dared to kiss him with barely any preamble.
And he kissed her back.
I slant my eyes to the window above my sink again, the same window that looks right into the man’s kitchen, the same window I’m standing in front of—doing dishes from my dinner for one—daydreaming about a life that isn’t me waking up at home by myself. That also isn’t making breakfast for myself and working at home…you guessed it, by myself. And eating lunch by myself, taking my after work walk (by myself), eating dinner, also by myself, and then bingeing whatever hot TV show is on social media until I’m too tired to stay awake—and doing it by myself.
And then—worst of all—going to sleep.
By myself.
The man picks up the beautiful woman, lifting her like she weighs nothing and setting her on the kitchen counter. Then?—
“Oh!”I exclaim, dropping the dish I was washing and ripping my gaze away.
That’s…
Well, that’s a version of oral sex I’ve never seen before.
Heat floods my cheeks, fills my middle, flickers between my legs, and I close my eyes, count to ten.
“Stop,” I whisper, slitting them open, finding that at least I didn’t break the plate.
I move slowly and deliberately as I finish washing it, as I set it in the rack to dry, then repeat the process with the remaining cutlery and glass and pan that I used to sear my single chicken breast, to cook my single serving of asparagus.
I promise myself I’ll give the man—thecouple—privacy, but the sicko in me can’t stop my eyes from slanting over…
Or being disappointed when I find the kitchen is empty, though the lights still blaze.
See? I’m a Peeping Tom sicko.
I shake my head, treat myself to a second glass of wine, and pad off into the living room.
I watch my show until my lids grow heavy.
Then I climb the stairs to my bedroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and I crawl into bed.
