…the Way She’s Clutching That Skirt…how She Has Her Hand Hidden Inside Her Sweater…providing

…who’s call, ultimately, is it?…<3 emmie @ le cocu quotidien.

…which is true, one drink, and then everyone drifted out except…{blushing}…<3 emmie @ le cocu quotidien.

It was cold in the bedroom as she slipped out of her scrubs.  The show was about an hour’s drive into the city and she only had a little while to get ready.

A final decision: the black, cheeky panties her husband adored.  They were sensible, while the rest of her outfit—a plunging neckline, new stockings, the first night out in a long-coveted pair of shoes—might give one idea, she would know that she had chosen against the most daring options in her drawer.  Her husband grew quiet as he saw her dress, but this should have reassured him.

She was thrilled that Clay had asked her to join him at opening night.  Her husband enjoyed this sort of thing, but could hardly be expected to make the herculean effort to find such exclusive tickets, so she had resigned herself to catching it later, maybe on a family vacation for an off-Broadway run.  Then Clay called, remembering something she had mentioned at the Christmas party, and she jumped at the chance.

Her husband took the news in stride—happy that she was happy—even offering to take her shopping for something special for the occasion.  When she settled on the shoes, she kissed him on the cheek and slipped the blue credit card from his wallet.

—

Clay arrived, and, as she finished getting ready, her husband made him a bourbon and soda.  It was the first time the two men had met outside of her office’s functions, and her husband had thoughtfully asked her what Clay liked to drink so that he could offer a small token.  They stood as she entered the room, clearly taken with her.  

Clay offered his arm to her as they said goodnight to her husband.  Clay watched as she blew her husband a kiss.

—

She always got nervous at black tie events, and sure enough she nearly fell on the first stair.  She caught Clay’s hand just in time to avoid embarrassment; if she had been wearing her rings, she would have cut his palm.  He smiled and, to set her at ease, kept her hand the rest of the way up the stairs to the box and leading her to their seats.

The view was breathtaking, and she took a moment to simply appreciate the person who was showing her such kindness.  He wore his finely tailored suit the way another man might a t-shirt and jeans; it was clear that he was, somehow, most comfortable in settings like these.  She thought how lucky a girl would be to be shown the town by someone like him.  He could have asked anyone to be where she was.

As the first song began, she slipped her hands around his arm and beamed a smile of gratitude toward him.  For some reason, it felt more natural to leave her arm hooked in his for the duration, squeezing more tightly as the music swelled and released.

When he returned with drinks after the intermission, he whispered to her about their neighbors in the row ahead, holding her knee as he leaned over.  She laughed and buried her grin into his shoulder as the neighbors glanced back in their direction.  

“Excuse my friend, here,” Clay laughed, “she’s just had her first taste of bourbon.”  She giggled and gave him a playful shove before laying her head back against his shoulder as the lights drew down.

—

“The show was amazing, but now I have a splitting headache,” she texted her husband as Clay walked her to the car.  Her husband responded quickly, asking if she needed him to come pick her up.

“Don’t worry about it.  I don’t think I have the drive back in me tonight.  Clay is going to drop me off at a hotel around the corner, and I can take the train in the morning.  See you tomorrow, love.”

While Clay drove, she mapped out her next morning.  She had an extra set of scrubs and underwear at the office, along with a cosmetic bag.  She could text Michelle to bring another pair of shoes.

She slipped out of her dress as she entered the bedroom.  She walked to the bed, and, bending at the waist, she realized how cold it was in Clay’s apartment.

Why We Send Ass.

That sweater, that smile, it’s all for him, her tall, powerful boyfriend. She doesn’t pay any attention to me anymore. And why should she? I’m just her wimpy failure of a husband. But I do my best to make her happy. I make sure the house is spotless, her laundry is done, and she never has to lift a finger. This way she gets to enjoy more time with him. So why do I do it? Well, just look at her. I can’t resist her or deny her anything. It’s what I am.