Skip Newcombe was waiting when his wife came home from work. All day long he'd told himself that when she came home, just for once, they'd sit and talk like a normal couple in their mid-twenties. He'd make her a cup of coffee. They'd talk about their day and relax. He'd be good, he'd be in control.
He knew exactly when to expect to hear the sound of her key in the front door. Andrea rode the bus home from her secretarial job. Her knew her route, how many stops before she got off, the stores she'd pass, the name of every street. He could look at his watch and know for sure where she was and what she was doing any time of day.
His sat in the kitchen, waiting, smoking quietly, telling himself over and over that things would be different tonight. He'd made a promise.
In his mind he saw her step off the bus and look both ways before she crossed the street. He could see the way her slim calves flexed as she walked. He could hear the sound of her heels, see the sway of her hips, the gentle, trembling movements of her breasts. It was still light so he didn't worry about her safety. The pavements would still be crowded, some of the stores would still be open.
He saw her walking, coming home, and he felt doubt inside him and passed a trembling hand through his hair. She was on her way, she must be on the corner of Parkway by now, crossing the street again. Walking briskly, looking composed, the way she always did. Rolling her hips. Looking attractive in her tight fitting business suit. Inviting guys to look at her. Drawing attention to herself.
Sitting at the kitchen table Skip had a clear view along the hall when Andrea opened the front door and stepped inside.
"Hi, honey," she said. She smiled, her eyes sparkled. She closed the door behind her and when Skip reached for another cigarette his hands were shaking.
"I think it's going to rain," Andrea said. She dropped her keys on the table in the hall. She let down her hair as she came through to the kitchen. Her blue jacket was unbuttoned. Her breasts trembled softly with each step. She was wearing heels. Her hips swayed as she came closer.
She didn't look directly at Skip until she'd reached the kitchen, then she paused in the process of shaking out her hair.
Skip didn't smile. He flicked his cigarette lighter but it wouldn't catch. He tried it three, four times, as Andrea stood looking at him. Finally it lit. His hand shook as he touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette. The veins stood out in his forearms. His whole body was suddenly tense.
"Honey?" Andrea frowned. Her attractive face looked abruptly troubled. She smiled uneasily as Skip stood up.
"Give me your bag," he said.
Andrea didn't move. He stared at her handbag. He didn't want to look at her face and see her expression.
"Skip, you promised," Andrea said. She sounded hurt.
He didn't speak but he gestured for her handbag. He knew what she was thinking but he couldn't help himself.
"Honey, you said you wouldn't do this again."
He snatched her bag from her grip as she slowly raised it to him. It was a small brown leather bag. He could smell the leather. His fingers shook as he opened it and spilled the contents onto the kitchen table. Her purse tumbled out, make up, a packet of paper tissues, half a roll of peppermints, a hair brush. He pounced on her cell phone.
"Skip, please don't do this," Andrea whispered.
He ignored her. He checked last call, the numbers in her phone book, the amount of credit that remained.
His cigarette was clamped between his lips, the smoke rose about his head, and he narrowed his eyes against it. He could feel her watching him and sense her disappointment but he couldn't help it.
