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.
