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.
"Give me your panties," he said, without looking at her. He turned off her cell phone and put it with the other things on the table.
He could feel his heart beating with a slow, sure rhythm.
"Honey, please don't do this," Andrea said.
He didn't look at her but he could see her on the edge of his vision, her womanly shape, her blue suit, short skirt, sexy legs, white blouse. She was standing, unmoving, watching him. He looked down at her things on the table, there was nothing there that she shouldn't have.
"Take them off," he said, staring at the dark screen of her cell phone. He knew she might have deleted any messages she didn't want him to see. His mind showed him images of how she'd spent her day. He saw her at lunch smiling at someone, standing at the coffee machine in the office, swaying her hips as she walked between the desks, smoothing her skirt as she sat down, crossing her legs, knowing she was being admired.
He stared at her cell phone intently and for a long time she didn't move but then he saw her from the corner of his eye as she slowly raised her skirt.
He waited, tense, without looking at her but aware of her movements, listening to the small sounds she made.
Andrea's panties were warm from her body, white, trimmed with delicate lace, small, sexy, the material shone faintly in the afternoon light.
Skip could feel her watching him and he turned his back and looked inside her panties. There were a few stray pubic hairs clinging to the material. The cotton gusset was clean and unstained. He touched it. There was just the merest trace of dampness. Nothing incriminating. He raised them to his face and pressed them to his nose and inhaled deeply. He smelt her pussy and a light trace of her piss. He smelt her perfume and the fabric conditioner she used to wash her underwear. He knew the difference now between the scent of panties that had been worn all day and those that had just been put on. These were the same ones she'd been wearing when she'd left the house that morning.
Skip lowered his hands and glanced back at Andrea. She hadn't moved. She looked hurt and unhappy, disappointed in him. Her silence was worse than anything she might say.
