Ron was my childhood buddy. We have been there for each other through everything. Literally everything. We were so close, that at one point people suspected that we were partners, and that's why neither of us wanted to get married. It changed when Ron finally found Steph. Steph was a beautiful brunette, petite, and lanky, who always looked a few years younger than her age. Even now, a decade later, no one could have guessed that she had delivered two boys. Ron and Steph were crazy in love, and I was Ron's best man at their wedding. Since then, Steph has been trying to get me married too, setting me up on dates with her girlfriends, none of whom have her grace or beauty, forget intelligence or sharp wit.
I moved out for my job, but I've always been in touch with them. Over the years, I have enjoyed their hospitality, for days at a time, when I happened to be in town ("You can't possibly stay at a depressing hotel!" Steph would insist), as I often have to be for work. And I have seen their love grow from an explosive affair into a steady flame -- they are always physically affectionate in front of me and the kids, kissing each other mouth on mouth, caressing each other, almost unaware of us. I am not a prude, but it's hard to watch a woman so beautiful being with another man, even if it's your best buddy, especially when his hand seems to rest just under the swell of her pert breasts. But friendship has always been extremely important to me, and so despite my reputation as a ladies man, I have always behaved like a true gentleman around Steph. Couple of times, when I was visiting them, Ron had to go on business trips -- leaving me alone with Steph, and I knew he never had to worry about us -- despite knowing about all my history, including my trysts with married women.
As they say, though: nothing's ever permanent. And so it was with them. Cracks began to appear in their once unflappable love. Steph was getting tired of being a homemaker and a full-time mother, with Ron traveling constantly, and rarely contributing at home. She was itching to take up a job, but Ron was not supportive. My visits to the family increasingly bore witness to the stand-offs, and arguments. Just as it did now, as I entered the living room after a bathroom break. We were all watching The Late Show, and drinking, the dinner done, and the kids put to sleep.
"Kids need you," Ron said, as I settled back with my beer. Ron was on his fourth peg of scotch already.
"Kids need you, too!" Steph said, her voice full of cold anger.
"But, we need the money to secure their future, and I have to travel. I can't close deals by calling people," Ron retorted, and there was some truth to it.
"We're living in the 21st century. There is daycare!"
"I don't want my kids to be raised in daycare. I'll retire, you work," Ron almost shouted.
This, he knew, was a clincher, because Steph was unlikely to earn anywhere close to what he was earning, with her qualifications, or lack of them.
Steph's eyes welled up with tears, but Ron was now on a home stretch, all that scotch not helping.
"Why do you always take it to extremes? Why can't we be like normal working couples!"
"Normal working couples have loveless lives," Ron retorted.
This was his favorite theory, and I had tried in vain to convince him all these years. For all the good qualities he had -- loyal, sincere, hard-working, passionate -- Ron was extremely conservative about women's careers, because he had been left alone at home with babysitters by his ambitious mother for extended times. He, of course, never blamed his father, who was more absent. So yeah, basically a sexist asshole.
"Yeah, and we're fucking like bunnies," blurted out Steph, who had had enough of alcohol herself, and not to mention, enough of Ron's bullshit.
An awkward silence descended the room, as Steph stormed out to the kitchen.
"Ron! What is wrong with you?" I asked.
"What's wrong with me? What's this obsession with working? I always was clear about these things when I got married!"
"Ron, you have to change with the times. She's an intelligent person. What is wrong with wanting to have a career for herself? You could use the money, too."
"So you're on her side, now?" he snapped.
"I'm not taking sides between you two. Just giving my best friend my best advice."
He emptied his glass and started to refill.
"I think that's enough, Ron!" I said, sternly.
"I'll bloody well drink as much as I want in my own house," he snapped. But I took away the glass, and he collapsed on the couch. In a few minutes, he was snoring, and I got up to help Steph.
Steph was loading the dishwasher. Bent over it, her skirt barely covering her fabulous butt. Her long slim legs bent at the knees, her oversized t-shirt hanging loose so that I had a glimpse of her bare tummy. I looked away after taking in that sexy image for a few seconds.
"I'll do that, Steph," I said, clearing my throat.
"It's no bother," she said, her voice still angry.
She was standing tall now, the shoulders of her t-shirt dropping down, exposing lacy pink bra straps. A hint of cleavage visible. She raised her hands to tie her hair back. It kills me when women do that, their breasts thrust forward -- as were hers, straining against her T-shirt. The short-sleeved, slightly oversized t-shirt meant that her armpits, which she kept immaculately shaved at all times, as far as I could tell, were partially bare (I love women's armpits, god knows why). Her slender hands raised over her shoulders. Even at the peak of her domestic condition, she was a vision to behold.
I was drunk too, did I tell you? So I didn't avert my gaze from her chest, as I typically would have. And I noticed her noticing. But just as I was about to look away embarrassed, I thought I saw a hint of a smile forming on her face. Just for a tiny moment, and then she turned toward the sink.
"Come on, let me do it," I said, walking toward her, and holding her left hand I pulled her away from the sink, and made her sit on a kitchen stool. She slumped down, and her eyes filled up with tears again.
"Rick, I can't do this anymore," she said, as her tears rolled down her lovely cheeks.
"Steph! Come on, you guys just need a break. Take a vacation, or something."
"I'm not talking about just that. I don't love him anymore. He isn't the man I married."
I wiped the tears from her cheeks, as she leaned her head on me. I patted her back reassuringly, lost for words.
"Why don't you call it a day," I said. "I will take care of the kitchen."
"Rick, did you hear what I said?"
"Yes, I did. Let's talk tomorrow, when both of us are sober."
"This is better. I will be able to say what I really want to!"
"Okay, let's do this. I'll finish loading this darn thing. In the meanwhile why don't you check on the kids. And if you still feel like talking, we'll talk."
She nodded, and walked out of the kitchen.
I finished loading the dishwasher, and cleaned the kitchen counters. I've a bit of an OCD when it comes to the kitchen. I need to tidy it up before I go to sleep, so I am used to it. Just as I stepped out, I bumped into Steph, and my hands grabbed hers, to stop her fall. I was not prepared for what happened next, though. She leaned towards me, her lips inches from mine. Her breath full of alcohol hit me. Her lips parted slightly, as she looked at me with a look full for desire and longing.
"Steph," I said, breaking her trance, "what are you doing?"
"What I should have done long back," she responded, closing the gap between us, as her lips grazed mine.
"No, Steph!" I said sternly, pushing her away a bit with her hands that I was still holding on to.
"Rick, I know you've wanted me from the first time you saw me!"
Fuck me! And here I thought I was being a gentleman around her.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I said, with mock anger.
"You have been undressing me every time you look at me. Hell, you just did it fifteen minutes back right there!" she said pointing to the dishwasher.
"Steph, you're so beautiful that it's hard to take my eyes off you. But I've never thought of you that way. And you know I'd never do that to Ron."
"If you don't, someone else will. Someone else will have this fabulous body, because I'm done!" she said, running her hands along the length of her body to emphasize, thrusting her chest up ahead. Letting her hands rest on her hips. A pose of challenge. A pose of disarmament. Signifying that she was there for the taking.
Did I tell you she had changed into a mini floral nightgown/nightshirt, that barely covered her panties, her cleavage showing through the deep V cut neck with trimmed lace.
