Her hair was parted down the middle, blonde highlights fresh from the stylist. Just the way he liked them. She would be seeing him tomorrow, when the scent of the chemicals was gone from her scalp, but the colors were fresh and dynamic. Just like their lovemaking would be. Caroline thrilled at the anticipation, squeezing her thighs together, and feeling the heat rise at the pressure. The image of Damien fucking her, reflecting off the mirrors on his closet, on his ceiling.
In the meantime of course, there was Paul. Her legs separated, the heat rushing off like a getaway car from a crime scene. Dull Paul. Boring Paul. Always wrapped up in whatever sporting event was on the television. She supposed she wouldn't mind if she could be a one-sport widow, like many of her friends. But Paul rotated his sporting allegiances with the constant irritation of a sandstorm, piling up grit against the outside walls until every bit of structure gave under the weight.
Caroline wondered if he would even notice when she arrived two hours later than normal.
Of course he would. Thursday was her night to make dinner. Just like Monday through Wednesday. Unlikely that he would notice the highlights in her hair.
At most, it might dawn on his consciousness in a week or three, and he would turn that puzzled, dumpy face of his sideways - she supposed he thought the look was endearing, which it wasn't, it made him look like a tranquilized gopher popping out of the ground to see if the sun was up - and ask her "Did you do something to your hair?" One of his aimless gestures around the side of his face.
She fought the urge to slap him every time he did that. Maybe it was time to quit resisting that urge. Give him a brisk smack to drive him the rest of the way down onto his precious couch, utter a cutting remark tied to whatever ball game (or race, or bobsledding for the ever love of all that is holy, how could he be more interested in two men jammed up against each other in a wooden tube than in a pair of 40 double D's bouncing in a tank top?) he'd been watching, and then strut out the door, telling him she'd be back later. Or in the morning. That was better. In the morning, and let him wonder where she'd be all night.
Caroline had given him plenty of chances. Last football season she'd pranced through the room wearing a jersey with nothing underneath - top or bottom - and his response had been to ask her how she could wear that quarterback's jersey when the fantasy league title was on the line. What about her fantasies? Her ass had been visible if he could have yanked his eyes off the goal line on the screen. Baseball season, when she had slipped up behind him wearing nothing at all, and asked him if he'd like a grand slam; his response of 'not bloody likely since my team isn't up to bat.'
Damien didn't care about sports. Damien had ripped her white silk blouse in half the last time they'd met at the club. Ripped the buttons right down the middle and made her keep dancing with her bra flashing every time she moved.
