This is a night in the life of a married couple, deeply in love. After a rough week and lingering tension, they find their way back to each other--through love, passion, and intimacy.
The door slams shut behind her--too loud, and the hollow echo rattles her. She stands motionless, hair limp from the cold drizzle of the late fall, with a chill in her bones and a buzz of frustration in her mind. Bag, umbrella, coat--all drop to the floor, gathering in a damp heap.
What a shit day. What a shit week.
The weight of it drags her down--every meeting, every impossible demand, every moment she couldn't push back.
Would they expect this from one of the guys?
The thought simmers, bitter, refusing to leave her alone. All she wants is to collapse and hide from the world.
"Jane, I'm in the kitchen," she hears John call, and the sound of his voice makes her notice the mellow jazz music. She knows he's cooking--the smell has already reached her. And she also knows he's only saying it to break the awkward silence she's been holding, but it still grates.
She drags her feet into the open space of the kitchen and there he is.
What a good-looking motherfucker.
John has ditched the suit jacket, but the crisp white shirt remains, immaculate even after a full day at the office.
How does he do that?
If she gets close enough, she'll catch his cologne--subtle and familiar--and end up nuzzling into his neck to take in the entirety of his scent, letting him pull her into that infuriatingly warm bubble of his. And all the anger she's holding on to will dissolve. He even has a fluffy towel ready and before she can say anything he's there, drying her face and hair, finishing it all up with a light kiss on her lips.
There it is, the fucking bubble.
But not tonight. Jane holds herself back, arms crossed, watching him.
John is putting on a show. The black apron tied neatly around his waist, the kitchen towel tucked just so--
how he loves playing chef. And Okay, fine, he's good at it
. Knives and utensils sit at perfect angles within his reach, and little bowls of prepped ingredients line neatly on the countertop.
I'd rather be on that countertop right now,
she thinks,
so he'd work on me,
and the smile in the thought makes her feel just a little bit better.
He moves with his natural precision, motions methodical and smooth, in rhythm with the music in the background. Cooking has always been his thing--his 'panty-dropper' move--and it had worked like a charm when they first met. Now, it's just for her, always for her.
"I've opened a bottle of wine, Jane," he says as he pulls a chair at the dining table on the side of the kitchen, "Sit and I'll get you a glass."
He makes a show of it too, pours perfectly, not a drop spilled. "Food will be served momentarily, Madam," he adds with a smile.
A minute later he's showing off again, bringing over two plates of perfectly arranged food.
The plating, this fucking plating!
she thinks, her annoyance bubbling over. Once she starts on this slippery slope, everything he does will grate on her nerves. He's picked up doing all these fancy platings, but she's not in the mood for it. She doesn't care how perfect it looks. She just wants the food.
John is smiling, not oblivious--she can tell he isn't--but sticking to his plan, music, a nice dinner with glass of wine, and a soft landing into the weekend. She feels him watching her as he pours his own glass, then raises it toward her.
"Welcome to weekend, Jane! It's all downhill from here."
She ignores him, keeping her eyes fixed on the plate, picking at the food to break apart his perfect arrangement.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, in a careful voice, wearing that placating smile she hates. Hates, hates, hates! The thoughts in her head spill out, sharp and unfiltered, much louder than she means to.
"No, John, I don't want to talk about it! Stop fucking trying to always fix my problems! It's sweet, but sometimes I need to feel shitty for a while before I can feel better, and I wish you could just sit with me in that!"
She sees him freeze as her words hit. He gulps for air, like he's about to speak--but she doesn't wait. She stands, grabs her glass of wine, and walks away, before he can say anything. The instant feeling of guilt and regret wants to fill her, but she's not ready to acknowledge it.
"I'm gonna go take a bath," she says, not looking back.
Jane walks through the bedroom and into the bathroom. It's almost dark outside, but enough light filters through the windows that she doesn't bother turning on the lights. She sets her wine glass and phone on the edge of the tub, turns on the faucet, and begins undressing, letting her clothes fall into an unruly pile on the floor.
There's a small shelf next to the bathtub, stocked with the usual bathroom relaxation arsenal: salts, bath bombs, candles. Her fingers brush over the options before settling on a bath bomb. Something fragrant, bubbly, and distracting.
The plastic wrapper fights her, refusing to give no matter how hard she pulls. She's muttering curses and yanks harder, a sharp edge scraping against her finger. "You fucking thing!" she yells, voice echoing off the tile. She hurls the bath bomb into the water with a splash, and it sinks before erupting into fizz and foam.
Her anger fizzles too, and she sits on the cold edge of the tub, naked and quiet, finger pressed to her lips to stifle the sting.
The music has stopped, and she can hear John tidying the kitchen, the muted clatter of dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. This is how she helps after he cooks, and him doing it feels like a message.
He must have heard her frustration. Why isn't he coming to check on her? To comfort her? She needs him so much right now.
The idiot,
she thinks, sucking on her finger.
Jane steps into the tub and eases herself into the steaming water, foamy bubbles welcoming her. Heat pushes away the chill from her body, and she begins to relax. The jasmine fragrance of the bath bomb is soft and calming and she lets out a long exhale. She closes her eyes.
Better. This is better.
The daylight has faded and the bathroom is dark, and she does not like this empty darkness. She reaches for a candle, lights it and sets it on the windowsill to her right, and then another, and another, until the room is filled with cozy, flickering flames.
A sip of wine completes the moment, and she exhales again, sinking deeper into the water, almost content.
Welcome to the weekend.
She finally lets a sliver of regret sneak in--poor John didn't deserve that.
She looks at her body in the glow of the candlelight. All that time in the gym is clearly paying off--firm thighs, toned abs, perky curvy tits to top it all off. Her hand trails over her skin, and she smiles.
I see what John likes so much.
The smell of jasmine is suddenly more present--his favorite. For a moment she wonders, rhetorically, why of the half-dozen bath bombs, she chose this one. But she knows exactly why.
She lets her mind drift to John, her hands wandering too, and her body responds to her thoughts and her touch. Nipples harden under her fingertips and she pinches them softly, with a light twist, then harder, then gentle again, like he does. It feels so good, that her left hand stays there, twisting and rolling a nipple, while her right hand slips lower. She leans back, raising her legs through the foam and the bubbles, propping her heels up on the ledges of the tub and opening herself to her fingers. She tries to push into her pussy, but the hot water has stolen her wetness, so she moves to her clitoris, teasing and rubbing in slow circles. The sensations build quickly, and her fingers start moving faster, with the water swirling gently against her skin. Her breath gets heavier with the tension in her body and her orgasm feels so close, just within reach.
But John isn't there.
Without him, nothing makes sense--and Jane stops, so abruptly that her body jolts with raw ache. She hugs her knees, on the verge of crying, staring at the flicker of the candlelight in the bubbles. All she's left with now is loneliness--loneliness and guilt, and she does not want to be alone anymore. She needs him here, with her, to share in this moment--she craves his warm comforting bubble now.
She must have hurt him worse than she thought, and now she's starting to worry. He would have checked on her by now, but he must be too upset. This silence feels like another quiet message.
She remembers a silly meme John sent her--
"I don't apologize,"
it said, in a caption overlaid on a sassy-looking woman filing her nails,
"I just sleep naked and let him decide if he's still mad."
There's a quiet click, and light bursts into the bathroom through the door she left half-open, making her blink. She hears John's familiar motions--shoes kicked off, the metallic jingle of his belt being unbuckled--and his movements sound subdued and heavy. A wave of panic hits her. He's going to bed, and she'll never get to fix this tonight. Her heart races as she grabs her phone, fingers fumbling to type a single word: "John?"
She's about to settle into her anxiety, waiting for him to respond, but before she can even put her phone down, he steps into the bathroom.
There's hope!
