We drove to her house in silence and when we arrived outside I kissed her on the cheek (she was giving me the cold shoulder) and told her I would call her tomorrow.I drove home listening to Toni Braxton on the radio preaching about being broken hearted which made me feel so much better about my day.The next day came around and I was about to ring Cindy to make up with her, but thought it would be better if I just went round to her house instead.It was about midday by the time I arrived at Cindy’s house, so her parents would be at work, leaving just Cindy and I to ourselves to talk.I knocked on the door and waited a couple of minutes until she finally opened the door. I was just about to start my apology speech to her when I realized that it was in fact her mother standing there, wearing quite a revealing dressing gown, leaving little to the imagination.“I’m sorry Sylvia, I thought that only Cindy would be home. I wanted to surprise her”.“Its nice to see you again Jamie. Cindy isn’t. It is manly, unyielding, covered in wood and leather, your space, your domain. It is a place I only go to clean. I pause at the door and lean my ear against the panel, listening to see if you are on the phone or on a video call. You are not. I take my time with the handle, turning the antique brass knob to release the well-oiled latch. I slip my lithe body through the small gap that a gentle push creates. Closing the door behind me, I lean heavily against it; settled in my well-intentioned deceit, I paint on my happiest face. You hear me and look up, taking me in, in a moment, your keen eyes scanning every inch of my body. I look at them intently for your eyes tell me in a moment what you are feeling. Are they hazel or green right now? They change by your mood and the palate around you. Your appreciation is gratifying. I can see that familiar lust in you, in your eyes, the tension in your broad shoulders, the pen paused and forgotten mid-signature. Three years of marriage.
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