I cooked dinner every Tuesday. It was the only time I cooked, for certain. On the weekends we tried to cook together. Or we went out. During the week, arriving home first meant making dinner plans. Except for Thursdays. But Tuesday was my turn, and always my turn. Mostly because of Thursdays, naturally.
I made him, my husband Jeff, whatever he wanted. Sometimes he would place an order. Other nights, like tonight, he wouldn't suggest anything. He would expect it. And I wouldn't ever think of not coming through.
"What time is dinner, Alex?" he texted me that morning to set our game in motion.
"Is six o'clock OK," I texted back. That was the last we say anything to each other unless something came up. It didn't today, I went through our routine. Or perhaps it was a ritual.
Just like every Tuesday, I would stop working early. Working from home has it advantages. Jeff is a simple man with simple tastes. Spaghetti and meatballs were always favored. He honestly preferred pre-made sauces, which I tossed into another pot to simmer. Once the meatballs were in the sauce I put on the water for the pasta and jumped in the shower.
I shaved everything. And made sure to clean myself thoroughly. Jeff liked that perfumed soap, I lathered myself with it liberally. He also likes when my hair is still a little wet from the shower and just lightly combed. I made sure it smelled nice too.
I looked at myself in the mirror as I got out and smiled. I was his perfect woman. Brown hair. Goldilocks breasts, not too big and not too small. A perfect from grabbing. And for more.
I toweled off and dropped it in the laundry. I never dressed for dinner on Tuesday.
And I always timed things perfectly. The pasta was done. The meatballs were ready. And I had everything on Jeff's plate as I heard his car in the driveway. I put his plate down at the kitchen table and stood in the corner, burying my nose as deeply as I could.
"Dinner smells lovely," Jeff yelled as he came in. "But what is this?"
I stood as still as I could. I could almost feel his eyes on me. I could feel the cold of the floor on my bare feet and the slightest of drafts form the window on my arms and my back. His gaze, presumably on my ass, caused a burning inside. I stood still; because Jeff said this was the only way.
"What is this, Alex?" he asked again. Firmly.
I turned around and knelt down before him. I cast my eyes down and pressed my knees as tightly closed as I could. I kept my arms at my side. We had done this enough that I knew not to cover myself. I did steal a glance at my man. He was in a suit, mostly. His tie was off, and the top buttons of his shirt were already undone. His face had a clear five o'clock shadow, he never shaved on Tuesdays. His eyes showed a mix of...well I don't really know. What does a man feel when he finds his wife naked in the corner as he gets home from work?
"What is this, Alex" he asked again. Slowly.
"I am sorry, Jeff," I said. And with a deep breath, "I cheated on you."