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,
