Apologies for typos, errors, misuse of ‘I’ and ‘Me’, etc. I self-edit, taking great care over several proof reads to get it right, with intentions to publish every story without error, where I’m always searching for perfection. But the little bastard typos and mistakes still get through.
~0~
© 2022 Thefireflies, for Literotica
THURSDAY
An event occurs most weekday mornings, almost like clockwork, where Bridget steps naked from the shower and I take her place. Her skin glistens, steam rising, and naturally I’m naked too. Often we make eye-contact and sometimes she even smiles, partly because it’s her nature to smile, but also because she’s the morning person in this partnership, very recently returned from a run and now she’s freshly showered, having washed all her sweat away.
The moment passes quickly because we need to get moving, but every now and then we softly rub against or bump into one another, as we do now. The collision of our naked skin is mostly unintentional in our cramped ensuite, but I’ll occasionally contrive the contact, and I’d like to think she does too.
Sometimes, but rarely these days, I’ll caress her buttocks or thigh with the tips of my fingers. Once upon a time it was a staple of our intimacy. But this is about as much naked intimate contact we’ve shared for…well, if you must know, it’s four months since we last had sex.
~0~
Another day, another shower to rinse the cobwebs from my groggy head. Warm water falls over me while I watch Bridget through the steamy glass. She stands at our vanity and mirror, waving the hairdryer over her hair, normally a subtle mix of light and dark browns depending on how light falls upon her, but currently wet and dark and limp, falling to her shoulder blades. When her hair dries she’ll likely scrutinise several strands, where every now and then she finds a grey hair, then she’ll tut tut with annoyance. But she’s almost literally splitting hairs to find them.
Damn, there’s a magnificence about her, no word of a lie. A level of perfection I cannot describe. She’s beautiful and while I’ve always tried to play it cool about her beauty, I know I’ve been punching way above my weight for the past fifteen years.
Long before we were married I used to joke-but-not-joke, “There’s nothing bland about you, Bridget Bland.” Bland is her maiden name if you must know and I still use it sometimes, because affection reasons. Sometimes I think of saying something, anything. Burst from the shower, exclaiming, “Holy shit, Bridge, you’re fucking gorgeous!”
I suppose it would be a tad weird, but seriously, look at her: tall with a gorgeous mix of womanly curves and athletic muscle. Up and running most mornings before I can even think of struggling out of bed, plus she swims laps some days, does pilates in our lounge room other days, heads to the gym once or twice a week at the university where she works. All this despite motherhood and life in general trying to slow or curb some of her physical pursuits over the past decade.
There have been times when Bridget has expressed her worries about losing her old figure, her young figure, where my answer is she looks as beautiful and perfect as ever, because she does, but she brushed my comment off with a dismissive, “Oh, you’re only saying that because you have to.”
I’m not just saying it, but it’s my way to joke, where I replied, “Anyhow, thicc is hot,” but she doesn’t always appreciate my humour, and I recall I received a frown. I’ve got to say, her frowns are pretty cute.
If anyone’s grown curvier it’s me, and I’m definitely becoming concerned about my weight. Piled on fifteen to twenty kilograms in the last five or six years I reckon. There’s a paunch growing over my once flat belly and long-disappeared six-pack abs. They’re still there when I clench them, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me, and Bridget occasionally has the gall to point these things out with her own brand of humour.
“When’s the baby due?” she recently asked. Now, can you imagine if I’d said such a thing to her! And I probably would and get into trouble for it, but my reply was, “I can’t be pregnant, got to have sex to make a baby.”
She screwed up her face with exaggerated derision and I’d grinned at her. Still, I revelled in the lingering feeling of where her fingertips caressed my belly moments before, choosing to enjoy her touch rather than her jestful barb.
When Bridget stands naked at the mirror, as she does now, still drying her hair, I sometime recall the early days of our relationship, and even into the early years of our marriage, where more than a few times we’d be in the bathroom and she’d lean over with hands on the vanity, pushing her bum back with a waggle and inviting me to plunge my cock into her gloriously wet pussy, both of us pushing deeply together. She’d look into my eyes via the mirror and her smile would grow into an orgasmic O as she’d inadvertently squeak and moan and gasp my name, and I’d groan, and sometimes we’d even cum simultaneously, or close enough, our bodies pulsating together, overtaken with ecstasy.
And love. We were so in love in those days. I can’t even describe how in love we were. It’d probably sicken you if I tried, even if you are here for pure romance.
There was a fuck-load of lust between us, too, and occasionally my cock grows at my memories of our earlier days, and if I was alone right now I might give into my desires and take care of myself, but there’s no time today, because work and stuff await, and I’m not alone right now, so I let the thoughts go, lathering up with body wash instead.
Moments later Bridget turns to leave the room, where I take one last peek at her glorious nakedness through the steamy glass. She’s still playing with her hair, arms up, lovely boobs on display, but she doesn’t even glance in my direction.
She didn’t even see my semi-erection.
~0~
Despite Bridget exiting the shower before me, every single day I’m dressed before her while she fusses about making herself look beautiful for work. How many times have I told her, “You look perfect without make-up, my love,” where she almost always answers, “Got to look professional, Rick.”
Personally, I don’t get it, but apparently it’s not professional to possess a natural sprinkle of freckles, some other minor sun damage and a few faint lines appearing over the past year or two, plus the scar on her chin you’d hardly notice. She’s been doing this as long as I’ve known her, where she applies a little make-up almost every morning.
I think about the silly expectations and conventions society places upon women. I don’t even have to wear a tie, except for important meetings with important people. Which reminds me, I have an important meeting with so-called important people early tomorrow morning and should set my alarm at least half-an-hour earlier, to give me time to get going.
With a sigh, I think, Future Rick can set my alarm, but right now I need coffee, stat!
~0~
Something new in our routine happens this morning: coffee awaits both me and Bridget, courtesy of nine year-old Ebony, bless her. She’s sitting in her pyjamas at the dining table, sunbeams streaming through the window glowing off her caramel brown hair like her mother’s, all while she spoons cereal into her mouth and reads a book.
“You made this?” I ask.
“Yup,” she replies without looking up.
I’m not going to question why Ebony made coffee for us. I am going to accept this miracle with one word: “Thanks.”
“No worries, Daddy.”
“Hmmm, smells divine too. Oh, and thanks for feeding Arrow and Peg.”
“It’s my routine.”
Sure is, but you do it like a boss. She’s taken on the dog feeding responsibility over the past year without fuss and until this moment of miracle coffee, I thought perhaps it was because she loved Arrow and Peggy more than us. I wouldn’t blame her; sometimes I think I love the dogs more than my kids.
Just kidding…maybe…
Sipping at my coffee, which is pretty bloody good, I ask, “Is your brother up?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
I withhold my chuckle, pausing my toast-making and coffee-drinking to look at my mini clone of Bridget, even with black rimmed glasses like her mother’s. And like her mother she’s a morning person, and there’s several other traits she gets from Bridget, but she inherited plenty of my sarcasm and a touch of cynicism. She probably gets the random coffee making trait from Bridget, because it’s something I imagine Bridget might have done by the time she was nine, but it’s a new one for Ebony, and whatever, she’s a great kid.
“You’re lucky you did a cracking job with this coffee,” I tell her. She finally looks up from the book and screws her face up at me. I screw my face up too, and she doubles down with her face making, then sticks her middle finger up, and naturally I stick my finger up at her, and her face breaks into a look of amused shock, then she giggles and I laugh.
“What are you two laughing at?” Bridget asks, entering the room, now dressed in a pleated black skirt adorned with blue flowers, and a simple white blouse, her hair simply and smartly held in place with a claw-style clip. “And where’s Jordan? Is he up?”
Enjoying the moment I’d shared with Ebony, I’m tempted to tell Bridget, Don’t know, don’t care, for laughs and all, but you know I’m not going to.
“We’re laughing at you,” Ebony tells her mother, but also flashes her beaming smile.
Bridget smiles and says, “I’m glad to hear you laughing and see your beautiful smile, but it’s time to put your book down and get cracking or you’ll be late for school.”
Ebony rolls her eyes and I give her a funny look, then say to Bridget, “Go easy, she made us coffees,” and Ebony gives me a sheepish grin.
I can almost hear her voice in my head, saying, I know you’ve always got my back, Daddy, but what she actually says is, “I’m close to finishing this chapter and I can’t stop on page fifty-seven.”
Bridget does a double take between her coffee mug and Ebony, and declares, “Of course you can finish your chapter, sweetheart. And thank you for the coffee.”
“I’ll go find Jordan,” I tell Bridget with a chuckle, then point to the toaster and say, “Let there be toast!” And it pops as if I’d commanded it so.
Bridget gives me a look, like maybe she’s amused but doesn’t want to admit it, and I give her a grin, and Ebony smiles, saying, “Couldn’t have planned that if you tried, Daddy.”
“Pfft, I didn’t plan it, it was magic,” I say. “It’s about time we told you how you come from a long line of magicians. Magee, Magic, you can see the link.”
Ebony Magee rolls her eyes again, to which I give another chuckle, before catching Bridget’s dark eyes which look even bigger behind her glasses, and she says, “You better go magic up our other child, Mr Magic Magee, because he needs to be ready for school.”
“I’m onto it.”
It’s not hard to find Jordan; he’s upstairs in his bedroom, lying in a sun-patch on the floor rug between our old bitsa, Arrow, and younger Border Collie, Peggy. Two doggy heads rise, watching me as tails begin wagging against the rug, and Jordan says, “Daddy, I’m a dog.”
“Are you now?”
“Uh, huh,” he says, matter of fact. “And dogs don’t have to go to school.”
“Yes they do,” I say, crouching to pat Peggy and Arrow in turn. Both stand and the old-boy starts nuzzling into me while his younger playmate crosses the room to fetch something from among Jordan’s toys. I contemplate my son lying there with his wild tangles of honey-blond hair and green eyes he shares with my side of the family, giving him a smile. “Dogs go to puppy school and they need to eat and be groomed before they go, just like little long-haired louts. Come, you should eat breakfast and brush the vines you’re growing on your head.”
Jordan giggles, but says, “Dogs sleep in the sun all day, so sleeping in the sun is what I want to do. And I want you and Mummy to stay home too and play with me and Arrow and Peggy.”
“What about Ebb, do you want her to stay home?”
“No, Ebby can go to school.”
“Up until the end of last year you’ve followed Ebb everywhere like a bad smell,” I tell him, because he did, where he worshiped his big sister. His look suggests disbelief, but I smile and Arrow pushes against me again, receiving more pats. “And believe me, Mummy and I would love to stay at home and hang out with both you and Ebby, but we all have to go to school, mate. It’s just how it is.”
“You and Mummy don’t go to school, you go to work!”
“It’s true, we go to work, and you go to school, and that’s how things work.”
I say this with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, resulting in smiles from Jordan. Arrow lays back in the sun and Peggy drops a slobbery tennis ball at my side, looking expectantly at me, but Jordan picks the ball up and rolls it out the door where it bumps down the stairs and cyclone Peggy is after it like a blur.
Watching my son, I say, “This doesn’t have anything to do with your playground argument with Harrison and Dylan, does it?”
“No, and I didn’t argue with them, they were arguing with each other. I don’t want to go because you and Mummy are always at work. Sometimes you even work when you’re at home, like you were last night. And the night before, and the night before that one too. And Mummy also worked the other night.”
“I know, I know. Sorry. But we’re not working this weekend, which is in two days’ time. You have soccer, then we’re going to Mummy’s aunty’s anniversary party, so the quicker you get ready for school, the quicker you come home, and before you know it it’ll be the weekend!”
Jordan smiles. “I can’t wait for the weekend. Mummy said Aunty Robyn and Uncle Sam have a pool!”
“Do they? She didn’t tell me their new property has a pool. Sounds exciting! But it reminds me, I’m taking you to your swimming lesson this arvy, so don’t forget to pack your togs and towel before you leave. And your goggles, we don’t want a repeat of last week.”
“I don’t want to go to swimming lessons.”
“But you do want to swim at Mummy’s Aunty Robyn’s house, right?”
“Yeah, but I can already swim and Aunty Robyn’s not making me do lessons.”
The little so-and-so is smiling up at me and I can’t fault his logic. “I know you can swim, mate, but you need to practice to get better at it.”
“Gotta learn to swim for safety before you can swim for fun,” Bridget says, crouching down in Jordan’s doorway, giving Peggy a vigorous pat. “Now, sweetie, like Daddy says, you do need to go to school and I’ve made you toast for breakfast, and we do need to fix this messy hair of yours while Daddy makes your lunch.”
Jordan stands and Bridget and I share a look and she gives me a thumbs up and smile. Teamwork, I think, smiling back at the mother of my children.
Back down in the kitchen the coffee’s luke-warm now, but the toast is spread with margarine and vegemite. Ebony’s disappeared, but I know she’ll get herself ready so don’t need to encourage her in the slightest, and Jordan’s finally at the table eating his breakfast, making faces and sometimes complaining when Bridget draws the comb through his tangled locks.
Without looking up from the task at hand, Bridget reminds me, “Don’t forget I’m watching Cara’s game tonight. We might catch up for a quick bite to eat after, so don’t worry about making dinner for me.”
“Yep, I do remember,” I reply with a mouthful of toast, while slapping cheese slices onto buttered bread, adding tomato for Jordan but keeping it well away from fusspot Ebony’s. I’m cutting them into halves, Ebony’s as close to dead centre as I can make it, despite part of me wanting to make them a little uneven, for you know, resilience reasons. For my next Daddy challenge I’ll have Ebony making her own lunch, and maybe her brother’s too.
“What!” Jordan sounds outraged. “You’re seeing Aunty Cara play basketball without us?”
“I want to see my little sister,” Bridget explains. “We don’t get time to see one another anymore like you and Ebb do.”
“I don’t always want to see Ebby,” Jordan says, and I supress my chuckle.
“You were going to laugh weren’t you, Daddy.” It’s Ebony, walking up behind me, almost making me jump, leaving me wondering how she could tell I wanted to laugh.
“See, I told ya you’re from a long line of witches.”
“I thought it was magicians?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
She screws her face at me again and I do it back. This could go back and forth forever, and part of me hopes it does, because I’m enjoying this friendly jeering and jesting banter with my daughter. She’s in her school uniform and places her bag on the empty chair next to her brother, turning to him, and says, “It’s okay, Jordes, the feeling’s mutual because I don’t want to see you either.”
Well, I hope their friendship grows positively into the future. But one miracle’s enough for today, because I don’t think it’ll happen right now, especially when Jordan pokes his tongue out at Ebony, screwing his face up, but with a flash of genuine displeasure.
Note to self: Jordan doesn’t get sarcasm like Ebony does, so we must be careful how Ebony and I interact in front of him, because he’s starting to copy me, but not in a fun way.
Bridget doesn’t take part in the shenanigans, instead telling the kids, “Your Aunty Cara and I didn’t always get along but now I’d say she’s my best friend in the whole world and she’d say the same about me. And you two might not realise it, but you will get to be friends forever.”
“Friends, whether you like it or not,” I add before shoving more toast in my mouth.
“As if,” Ebony snorts.
“I thought Daddy was your best friend,” Jordan says with genuine sincerity, making a face when Bridget tugs at a stubborn knot.
“Yeah, Bridge, I thought I was your best friend?”
Bridget gives me the look, you know the one, and probably disgusted with me for speaking with my mouth full of food, but I counter with my own look of sincerity, as if I’m hurt to find out her sister is in fact her best friend and not me, and for a second I think she’s going to smile or laugh, but she doesn’t.
She returns her attention to Jordan’s hair, saying, “Daddy and I see each other all the time and I don’t get to see Aunty Cara very much because she lives two hours away. But tonight her team is playing here in town and I’m going along to watch.”
Jordan spins around, his face the picture of hope. “Can I come too?”
This could turn into serious pestering, depending on how Bridget handles our son. But she gives him her trillion dollar smile and says, “Sorry, sweetheart, but it’s just me going this time. But you and your darling sister who loves you very, very much are going to hang out with Daddy for a few hours without me. You’ll have to keep your father in line, do you think you can handle it?”
Without missing a beat, and before Jordan can respond, Ebony looks to me and says, “We’re having pizza, right?”
“Yes we are,” I reply, immediately on the same wave length.
“Yesss!” she says, pumping her fist like she’s won the greatest prize ever.
“Pizza!” Jordan says, his eyes lighting up.
Bridget gives me another look, then makes a gesturing nod at my belly. “Feeding for two, eh?”
“Fat shaming, Bridge. We’ll have none of that, thank you very much.”
And she gives me a little grin and chuckle, making me smile. But Jordan squeals because his mother’s inattentively pulled at his hair where the comb has caught more tangles, and Bridget says, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“You keep pulling,” our son replies, frowning.
“Them’s the breaks, mate,” I say, “You’re the one who refuses to get a haircut.”
“Or wash it properly,” Bridget says, but her cheeky little grin sneaks upon her lips again before she continues, pretending to grab something from Jordan’s hair. “I think there’s a bird nesting up here, look, I found an egg!”
Ebony laughs too. “Skye’s mummy and daddy think spiders climb into people’s unwashed hair when they sleep, so maybe it’s a nest of red-backs!”
Jordan is giggling and starts saying, “Spiders can’t live in hair.”
“They can,” I say with sincerity, “If you don’t wash hair you’ll grow dreadlocks, and spiders see dreadlocks as prime real estate, mate. Especially red-backs.”
Catching Bridget’s eye, she’s giving me a disapproving expression. Ebony’s laughing while Jordan runs his hands through his hair, perhaps considering washing it for once, so things aren’t too bad.
It’s Bridget’s way to push everyone towards the ultimate goal of getting out the door on time, and she does this now with great zest. Ebony, who’s used to her mother’s pestering and shows no real indication of becoming a rebellious teen in the future despite our banter, follows instructions to the letter, even if she regularly rolls her eyes. She knows she’s not the one who needs to be told.
Jordan, on the other hand, moves towards the door at a different pace, getting distracted throughout the entire process, and when he can’t find his swimming togs I think he’s going to lose his shit, however Bridget is gentle but firm, telling him to have another look. I’ll step in too if I think someone will forget something else critical, but this routine is Bridget’s domain. Jordan doesn’t see his mum purse her lips in a slight grimace once he’s looking away, but I do.
Personally, I’d like to let the kids work shit out for themselves. I trust Ebony won’t forget her books or lunch or whatnot, and is more independent than I was at her age, and who makes a damn fine coffee. Encourage this behaviour and give them independence, right?
Finally the kids are through the door and heading down the front path and Bridget does her rounds of the light switches and stove, which was never turned on this morning, and I lead the dogs into our little backyard, looking into Peggy’s eyes as she cocks her head as I tell them we’ll be back, we always are, and soon I’m on the porch locking the front door as Bridget checks her handbag for her car-key while standing at the top of the step.
“Don’t forget Ebb and I have hockey this afternoon,” Bridget’s saying, “And Jordan has swimming.”
“Hey, no worries, and don’t worry, I know you’re going out tonight so I’ll make sure I’m on time.” It irritates me when she constantly reminds me things I already know, because I require less reminding than our kids do. It’s not like I’m going to forget to take Jordan to his swimming lesson at five. Or the fact Bridget will be coaching Ebony’s hockey team before she heads off to watch her sister’s basketball game this evening. But she’s always reminded me about this and that, and I’ve long learnt to accept it as one of her quirks.
“Great, thanks,” she replies, “You locked the backdoor, right?”
Bridget stops for a second when I face her and say, “I did. And everything’s off, okay. I saw you check.”
She nods, giving me a sheepish smile, taking a breath or two, her eyes on mine, and I give her a smile of my own. We lean in and share a very chaste goodbye kiss on the lips, which doesn’t last even a fraction as long as I wish it would. And this is our habit, again, almost like clockwork, and I’m aware our little goodbye kisses are the only kisses we’ve shared since we last made love, many months ago.
“Hey,” I say, right as she’s about to go to the kids at the car.
“Hey, what?” She looks slightly surprised at my little variation to our routine.
“Good luck with your grant application.”
It’s not exactly what I’d wanted to say.
“Thanks, I’m not sure if I’ll submit it today, but I’ll need to do it by tomorrow night at the latest.” Bridget’s tone suggests a little uncertainty, something I reckon I’d only detect. She’s not felt one-hundred percent confident about continued funding at work and I know she’ll still agonise over the penultimate final-Final-FINAL draft of her grant.
She definitely needs a pick me up, so I do say what I’ve wanted to say since I saw her enter the kitchen this morning. “I really like your skirt. I think you look amazing.”
A flash of confusion or more uncertainty crosses my wife’s face before she smiles her lovely smile. “Thanks. I didn’t think you noticed?”
“Nah, I did notice. I always do. You still got it goin’ on and you know it. You look gorgeous.”
Again she looks confused, giving me a quizzical look, still with a slight smile, but perhaps she’s wondering if I’m serious or wondering where my sudden unsolicited compliments comes from. Even if she was going to say something, Ebony interrupts, calling from where she stands with Jordan by our red Volkswagen Golf station wagon, “Come on, Mum and Dad, we’ll be late for school, and Dad, you’ll miss your bus!”
“We better get going, ay,” I say, nodding in the direction of our kids. “She’s serious, calling us mum and dad rather than mummy and daddy.”
“Yeah, our little girl’s growing up.”
Despite the short distance from the front door to the car, for a moment I think Bridget’s going to take my hand, but she doesn’t. And I don’t take hers, though I do consider it and wonder how she’d react if I did.
~0~
I know you’re not here to read about my job. Nope, I didn’t think so, you’re here for hot, graphic sex, and some romantic love. Well, I might have mentioned somewhere above that this story’s about a married couple doing married couple things, so you might get the things you want to read about, eventually. I sincerely hope so, for my sake. But as they say, good things come to those who wait, and in the meantime I guess you should know what I do for a crust, for the sake of the story, and maybe for getting to know me better.
I’m government agent.
Ha, no, not an agent like a spy or major official, but a simple public servant or perhaps bureaucrat, a term which conjures up bad connotations these days. But there’s nothing bad about what I do, except it’s a very boring job which I actually used to enjoy, because it was an opportunity to expand my horizons, or some crap like that. A town planner by training, I work for the State Government as a mid-level public servant, where I liaise with local government and sometimes the Commonwealth too. Blah, blah, blah, it’s not even remotely interesting. Sometimes I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing.
Actually, a lot of what I seem to do is reading emails and giving single sentence replies, which is what I’m up to right now, sitting at my desk in my windowless office, which actually has a glass wall facing the interior space where my office-less colleagues are working hard or hardly working at their hot-desk cubicles, when I’m interrupted by a knock at my door.
“Hi, Rick, sorry if I’m interrupting.”
It’s the deputy head of department, Amanda, her accent American, originally from Milwaukee, Wisconsin before she moved to Australia for love, way back in her twenties. Now in her fifties and with a bob of black hair, dyed of course, she doesn’t attempt to cover her heavily freckled skin with makeup, because around here no one minds if people have people characteristics. I reply to her interruption with, “Not at all, what’s up?”
“Julian’s finally given me feedback on James’ report.”
She says this while holding a document I recognise as James’ report, and I inwardly groan because I spy several yellow post-it notes sticking out between pages at the top, and I reckon I can accurately guess what’s coming next. Pushing my chair back slightly and swivelling it so I’m facing Amanda, I reply, “What does Julian want us to change?”
Basically, our Head of Department, Julian Alcock, who can be a complete and utter dick, finally read the report, despite the fact it was on his desk and email early last week, and he’s decided we should include several additional figures, because, as Amanda relays Julian’s words to me, “Politicians and their advisors loose interest with boring figures so they need glossy images and infographs to show our data.”
Apparently Julian also said, “The report could use some more pizzazz,” a very Julian-esque thing to say.
Unfortunately James is now on leave and I’m his supervisor, and I’d proof-read the bloody report and so did Amanda, where we both agreed it was good-to-go before passing it on up the chain…
It’s like, two in the afternoon, the day before we present the report to the minister, who we all know won’t even read the bloody thing, and now we have to make several modifications.
Great, this is going to take several hours…
Amanda goes through the four points and we discuss options before she tells me she’ll be working back if I need her input and so we can print several new copies for the meeting in the morning. I consider telling her I might as well sleep in the office tonight. I don’t say this, but I do tell her, “I can’t work later than quarter-past-four because I need to pick my son from after-school care at five and take him swimming.”
With an anguished look suggesting she is on the verge of sighing, Amanda says, “I’m supposed to be at home too.”
Yeah, but your kids are in their mid-to-late teens and if they did need a fully-fledged adult’s help, they can get your eldest to drive them to their father’s house…or call the bastard on the phone.
Didn’t say it, where I’m dwelling strangely on the fact Amanda’s ex-husband, the man who she moved across the world for when she was a much younger woman, mind you, left her in a most cliché manner, having an affair with a younger woman he works with, while he was ‘working back’ later and later each evening. But he still lives a suburb or two from her place, and now they apparently amicably share the responsibility of raising three teenage children between them.
“Great,” I say, shaking my head, no longer giving a fuck about Amanda’s private life. “I better get started then.”
“Thank you, I’m so sorry about this. Call Bridget and blame me if you like.”
The expression on Amanda’s face is sincere and I know she’s annoyed at Julian too. I give her a nod, understanding it’s not her fault Julian’s a thorough prick, and she leaves. I decide to get cracking rather than call Bridget, who smiles beautifully at me from the photo of her and the kids on my desk.
Opening my electronic copy of the report’s final draft, it’s glossy front page stares back at me from the screen.
Charging towards sustainability: increasing the accessibility of Queensland’s electric vehicle infrastructure.
Below the title is a photo of a blue Tesla speeding down some generic highway through the red-soiled outback somewhere. I’d come up with the Charging towards sustainably bit of the title. James and I laughed about trying to include the word sustainability in the report as many times as possible, thereby making it more attractive to the target audience, the local councils, who we, the State Government, were encouraging to increase the electronic vehicle charging stations across the state; and the Commonwealth ministers who’d hopefully fork over the cash to do so.
It’s a balancing act.
So is racing against the clock, which isn’t exactly what I had in mind this afternoon. Murphy pays a visit, because of course the mischievous bastard does. Murphy of Murphy’s Law fame, if you’re wondering what I’m on about. Actually, I finish the last figure by ten-past-four, but can’t find Amanda, who isn’t in her office. Tapping my foot vigorously as I leave two voice messages on her phone, which she wasn’t answering, I then email her the file, thinking to hell with it, it’s in her hands now, then begin to gather my things into my backpack for the commute home, checking the time.
Amanda calls the moment I’m heading out, right on quarter-past-four. “Sorry, Rick, I was predisposed.”
She was on the toilet, I’m sure of it. Whatever, doesn’t matter, because she asks me to drop by her office so we can go over the last figure. I remind her I urgently need to leave, and she assures me it will take a minute or two, I agree, she agrees my modifications look good, so I don’t need tell her I wasn’t going to stay back any longer to change it if it wasn’t up to scratch. She says she’ll print the copies for our meeting, and I say, “Great, thanks,” because I certainly don’t have the time to do it myself, then I’m in the lift and out the building.
Twenty-past-four. I’d miss my bus unless I ran, and the next one should be in fifteen minutes. I could catch a taxi or Uber. Good idea, I’m not running for shit. I’d probably have a heart attack, anyhow. You’d never think to look at me I ran a couple of marathons ten or more years ago. For fun. Fuck…
Uber, the clock ticking, time not stopping for anyone, but the fucking traffic stops everyone.
Fucking bastards, someone should do a better job at planning this city! Actually, the busways aren’t too bad, hence I use them, except on this day when I need to pick up my kid in a hurry.
At twenty-minutes-to-five I bite the bullet and call Bridget, who answers, “Hey, Honey, I’m coaching, but what’s up?”
“I’m in an Uber stuck in traffic, and I actually don’t think I’ll get to Jordy’s school by five. I’m really sorry.”
“No. Not tonight, I’m coaching Ebby’s hockey and have plans afterwards. You know this.” The disappointment in her voice is tangible, like I can feel it coming through the phone and into my ear, turning my guilt-meter to eleven.
I’m nodding and exhale loudly, looking at all the cars surrounding me, going nowhere. “Bridge, I’ve…look…I’m trying, I can’t make this traffic move any quicker.”
“I’m literally coaching Ebony’s team right now. I can’t up and leave them.” There’s a curt edginess to her voice, which is a forced whisper, and I suppose she doesn’t want the girls to hear her conversation she’s having with her rather disappointing other half. This is not good. I love my wife so much, but she doesn’t like little surprises. Not surprises like this.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get…,” Who the fuck do I get to pick my seven year old son up from after school care and take him to his swimming lesson, all at short notice, mind you? “I’ll get Mum to take Jordy to swimming.”
“How’s your mum going to make it across town in peak hour, especially if the traffic’s as bad as you say?”
“She’ll do it if we need her to.”
I hear Bridget’s loud exhale through the phone. She’s pissed at me and rightly so, I suppose. A moment later she says, “No, don’t worry about it. I’ll sort something out.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. Just get…home.”
“I need to know what you’re thinking, Bridge, come on.”
Silence for another moment, then she says, “I’ll text you.”
“Thanks, Bridge. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well, you should be.”
She can’t see me nodding, but I do and say, “Hey…”
“Hey, what?”
“I love you.”
I hear her snort and wonder if she’s smiling or frowning. Frowning would be the correct response in this circumstance. But sometimes she smiles at anything, even when the chips are down. Honestly though, if our situations were reversed I’d be frowning. But she replies, “I love you too. But please don’t be too late this time.”
This time…
Yep, I’ve been late before. Honestly, this is not entirely my fault, but I need to own it. I pushed boundaries despite having more responsibilities than my job. Like my son, sitting there waiting for Daddy, who he’s noted this very morning is always working. Perhaps I should’ve run for the bus where the busways remain traffic free. Can’t change things now, though.
After hanging up, I close my eyes, glad my Uber driver is wisely opting out of engaging in conversation, wondering if Bridget will complain to Cara about how I let her down.
After ten or so minutes my phone buzzes and beeps, notifying me I’ve received a text. It’s Bridget, who informs me: I’ve picked up J and taking him to the pool. I need you to pick up Eb from Skye Hudson’s. Text me when you arrive there. If you’re not there before J finishes his lesson, I’ll drop him over there too.
Great, poor Bridget has left her coaching of Ebony’s hockey team, probably leaving the girls to the responsibility of her young-but-level-headed and enthusiastic offsider, Indira, to fetch Jordan and take him to his swimming lesson. Ebony is going home with her friend Skye, and I’m still a good twenty to thirty minutes away, which probably means Bridget will have to drop Jordan off at Skye’s too.
Cool, thanks, I’m really so very sorry, I reply, wondering if I should drop in another, sorry and perhaps an I love you. But I don’t, because Bridget isn’t stupid, even if I am.
I do add, Enjoy your night out, and Bridget’s lack of reply causes me think if sending my last message was wise, or wondering if she’s extra pissed off at me. Except Bridget doesn’t really do pissed off. Annoyed perhaps, upset maybe, and disappointed too, but not angry pissed off. But I’ll still know about it, I’m sure.
~0~
I know Bridget is coming through the door before I hear her, because the dogs lift their heads from the rug in the middle of the lounge room at the sound of her pulling into the driveway, then they’re trotting to the front door with wagging tails, waiting patiently.
Looking up from my tablet, the door opens and the dogs get pats and many words of love, and I get, “I’m so pissed off at you.”
She walks towards me like a warrior queen, lips pursed tight, eyes glaring through her glasses, flanked by her two wolves, one furry and black and white and staring up at her with adoring eyes, the other limping slightly behind, short creamy-brown haired and looking to me.
This is bad. Very bad. I’m up to my neck in so much shit right now.
“I am so very sorry,” I say, taking my socked feet from the coffee table.
Her eyes bore into me and I wish she’d smile.
Smile, Bridge, you always smile, even when things are not entirely okay…
She doesn’t smile, indicating things are much further along than not entirely okay, but does give a slight nod, gesturing to my drink on the lounge chair’s armrest, because she says, “Is that Scotch or Bourbon?”
My mind poses the real question she’s asking, her voice even in my head: How many drinks is this?
Just my second, I swear!
Because it can never be only one, right? Yeah, don’t tell anyone they were double shots either, or maybe a bit more.
“Jack Daniels, so technically not Bourbon…”
She sits at my side and holds out her hand and says, “Whatever, gimmee.”
I think there’s a hint of playful humour in her voice when she says gimmee, not matching the pissed off vibes I’m getting from her. But I’m not going to argue, handing her my crystal whiskey glass which currently contains maybe half a nip.
The dogs lie at our feet while I watch her smell my drink and take a sip, this girl of my dreams who doesn’t mind a dram of pure neat whiskey, and I hope it’s the right medicine for us and our latest issue. Swallowing, but not relinquishing my glass, she looks at my tablet and asks, “The report you’re presenting to the minister in the morning?”
“Yep, the one and only.”
Yes, I know, I’m working after hours again…sorry.
She takes another sip, staring straight ahead now, and when I look at where her gaze falls, there’s our TV on the wall, which is not switched on, but our likeness is reflected dimly on the dark screen. A man and woman, husband and wife, sitting together on their lounge. Look at them, us, me with my tablet in hand and her with my glass of JD, dogs laying at our feet each side of the coffee table. She’s thinking, I know she’s thinking, and I know he’s overthinking, because he is me, wondering about all the things she’s thinking, knowing it’s about how he, her husband, me, let her down this afternoon because he couldn’t leave work on time and made poor decisions, and how much work he brings home some nights, and how much he drinks while he does said work.
Exhaling loudly, switching my tablet off and placing it on the armrest, I turn to Bridget, who’s still looking straight ahead. “I’ll say I’m sorry a million times if it’ll make you less pissed at me. Or I won’t say it again if that works better, but I’ll still think it a million times. Either way, I wish this afternoon went to plan and I didn’t get caught in traffic. I thought an Uber would get me to Jordan’s school quicker, it was a bad decision, and like I said, I’m sorry.”
“I know you didn’t mean it,” she says, her voice gentle now, almost a whisper. “Maybe there was an accident or something, but I…I’m stressed out too.”
Am I off the hook?
“Everything okay?” I ask instead. She’s still looking ahead, thinking. After a moment or three I look to her and ask, “What ya thinking?”
I watch her close her eyes, purse her lips before biting her bottom lip, and then she says, “Cara and Manny are separating.”
Whoa, unexpected news, and for some reason my heart starts thumping. This is not right, not Cara and Manny. “Separating or separated already?”
I can see the anguish on Bridget’s face, where she’s biting her lip again, and to be honest, I feel a tad nauseous. She says, “Cara’s actually decided to leave him but hasn’t done so yet.”
“Why? Like, why? Did he cheat on her?” Seriously, why else would she leave him, he’s a bloody great bloke.
Bridget shakes her head. “No, Cara didn’t say Manny cheated, and I think I’d be the first she’d talk to if he did. And she didn’t cheat, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t.”
I totally was. Or at least, the thought did cross my mind in less than an instant.
Bloody hell, Bridget’s little sister, Cara Bland, who like all the Bland women is not bland in the slightest, where it sounds like she is leaving Emmanuel, her partner of…eleven years now, I think.
A Spaniard, Emmanuel, or Manny as we call him, was her Contiki tour guide in Europe, where they commenced a passionate fling-turned-love affair, where he left his job to follow her through the rest of Europe, parts of north-Africa, then North and South America, and ultimately back here to Brisbane, where they didn’t get married, but they did buy a house and they did have a son, Luca.
Fucking hell, we visited Cara and Manny a couple of weekends ago and we ate and drank on their deck, and chatted and laughed together while Ebony and Jordan kicked a soccer ball with four year-old Luca in their yard. How or why did this happen?
“I know they’ve fought through the Covid years, especially after he lost his job and desperately wanted to get back to see his family when they were sick,” Bridget says, still looking ahead. “And you know about her miscarriages before and after Luca was born, but…she didn’t say these things, but I think these issues are getting to them. She did say she wasn’t…satisfied, but was pretty vague, like implying they weren’t going anywhere.”
“Where were they supposed to go?”
Sighing, Bridget says, “I don’t know?”
“Well this news sucks.”
“It totally sucks.”
Do we suck? Are you not satisfied? Could we be laughing together with family or friends one day, then you leaving me out of the blue the next?
Truth be told, I don’t want that outcome, ever. But I don’t feel one-hundred percent secure about us. I wish I was the secure dude who knew with one-hundred percent certainty my brilliant and gorgeous wife with who I’ve shared life with for fifteen years, married for twelve of them, was one-hundred percent satisfied being with me, even when I occasionally work late or bring my work home, or forget we were supposed to be going somewhere, or I’m accidently late, or some other thing or issue which I think is minor but she doesn’t. But I’m not, I can’t help it.
We’re part of the machine, she and I, both juggling work and family, looking for a balance, discarding some of the things important to who we are, sometimes feeling like a failure. Rarely touching one another anymore. Rarely sharing intimacy beyond a quick goodbye peck on the lips or bump of skin when we swap places in the shower while on our rush towards the daily grind.
I’ll tell you what though, I do know with one-hundred percent certainty how deeply I love Bridget Magee, née Bland, and the thought of losing her is the worst thought only equal to losing our kids.
I hate when my mind goes down this rabbit hole. I need another drink. Or to quit drinking. Yes, quitting drinking is probably what I should do.
Presently, I should say something, the silence deafening while she swallows the last drops of my Jack Daniels, now holding the empty glass. Reaching out, I take it from her, our fingers brushing in the process, physical contact, and she finally looks at me and gives me a slight smile, and I take her hand in mine, resting them on her thigh.
“Do you want to talk some more?”
Another little smile forms on her lips, Bridget shakes her head. “Not now. I’m wrecked and need to sleep. And you need to wake early to get off to your meeting. Wouldn’t want to be late for that, would you, Honey.” She says these final words with a proper grin.
“Come on,” I say, softly, standing, our hands still clasped. She lets me lead her, giving my hand a gentle squeeze and I squeeze back.
Our squeezes have always meant, I love you.
~0~
FRIDAY
In my dream Bridget is whispering something to me, but I can’t quite make out what she’s saying, and something is pressing against my hair, and now her whispers are louder, breathy, literally her breath is on my ear too.
“Wakey wakey. I think you forgot to set your alarm.”
This is real life, not a fantasy or dream at all, and I groan slightly, opening my eyes, my first sight of the day being the empty whiskey glass on the bedside table where I’d obviously placed it last evening. The reminder of why my mouth is dry, why most mornings are a struggle.
Turning to face Bridget, who’s retreating back to her side of the bed, I’m almost blinded by her bedside lamp, casting a too-bright-for-this-hour whiteness around the room. I mean, it has a soft setting for Christ’s sake, use it!
Something moves behind me, breathing in my other ear, so I turn back to come face to face with a wet nose at the end of a weathered muzzle, and doggy breath. “Good morning, Arrow,” I whisper and Arrow rests his head on the bed, wagging his tail, and he’s joined by an exuberant Peggy, who tries to push the old boy out the way to get at the pats I’m giving out.
Eventually I’m sitting, yawning and rubbing my eyes, thinking I’d love to go back to sleep for another hour or two. Peggy has no trouble with being awake, racing around the bed between me and Bridget, who’s pulling her multi-coloured active wear leggings up her long legs in the glare of the lamp.
“Hey, you, out of it,” she says as Peggy starts mouthing and play bowing, letting out a low whine, excited because she knows she’ll be harnessed up and going for her morning run in the next few minutes.
Bridget gives a slight chuckle, then removes her pyjama top, revealing her lovely breasts. They haven’t changed much over the past fifteen years, still round and firm, pokey nipples sticking from pinky-brown areolas, but I’m sure Bridget has mentioned stretch marks in recent times. I hardly notice the stretch marks and of course I’m still enthralled by her breasts.
Actually, you may have gathered I’m still enthralled by all of her. I love my wife, she’s perfect beyond all description. Okay, sure, no one’s perfect, and don’t get me wrong, like any couple we’ve had a few dramas over the years, but Bridget’s perfect for me. I felt this right from the night we met, way back at a friend-of-a-friend’s party in the backyard of a suburban share house. The host lit a fire in a perforated spinner drum from an old washing machine, drawing many of us in the cool late autumn air, chatting and drinking. I knew less than a handful of people surrounding the fire, and at some point whoever was sitting next to me stood and left the circle, and soon a girl asked me if the vacant seat was taken.
She was tall with big dark eyes under dark arching eyebrows, a happy faced smile upon her lips, brown plaited pony-tail cascading to the small of her back, and her simple figure-hugging black turtleneck top left very little to the imagination as to the curve of two magnificently proportioned breasts…of course I’d already noticed her, like most other fellas at the party, many vying for her attention throughout the evening.
None of the other boys stood a chance, because while I don’t normally believe in fate, I make an exception for this particular event, where I’m convinced this amazingly gorgeous girl and I were made for one another and destined to meet. You see, as is my way, I think I made a pretty silly joke about how the seat was single rather than taken, or something equally as bad, where what I said could have put her off sitting with this random bloke with a bad sense of humour, but she giggled and sat next to me, where we simply began chatting and laughing, discovering we clicked like we’d never clicked with anyone before.
Later she’d confess she’d only planned to stay at the party for a few hours, but ended up talking with me by the fire long into the early hours until the sun rose, something I think of as the beginning of the greatest love story in history. At least for the two of us. And the thing is, at that time in my life I wasn’t looking for love and neither was she, and neither of us were trying to impress each other. Like they say, love happens when you’re least looking for it. On the night of the party we were two people whose lives collided, destined to share life’s adventures and grow old together…
“Earth to Rick.” Bridget snaps her fingers in front of my face. “For a moment there I thought you were staring at my boobs, but you’re kinda spaced out. You’re thinking of your meeting, aren’t you?”
I look to her, briefly seeing her belly button between abs in the space below her sports bra supporting and covering-but-not-hiding the curve of her breasts, and then I look further, finding her eyes, gorgeous dark windows to her soul, which I cannot get enough of, this woman I fell head-over-heals in love with by a fire in an old washing machine drum at a party fifteen years ago. Her face has the questioning look she sometimes gives me, and I say, “Not work, I was thinking of something else, sorry.”
“You weren’t ogling my boobs?” There’s a trace of humour in her voice.
Rubbing my eye I say, “I, um, was thinking about growing old.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding a little surprised, maybe a bit miffed. I wait for her to mention my whiskey glass, but instead she grins and says, “It’s the grey hairs coming through, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, totally,” I laugh, standing, giving her a grin and going to her side, running my fingers through her hair. “It’s all these thousands of grey hairs. Oh, look, here’s one. No, wait, it’s just light brown. Oh, this one, nope, a darker brown.”
“Don’t even joke about it. And I meant your hair, Mr salt and pepper.” She turns towards the bedroom door, throwing on her loose fitting black-singlet. “Anyway, you do have a meeting to get ready for, you don’t want to be late.”
“I kind of don’t want to go at all.”
“But you will, because you’re good at what you do.”
I’m grateful for her confidence in me, and even more grateful for her smile.
She walks towards our bedroom door, her long leggings accentuating her calves, thighs, the roundness of her bum, the curve of her hips. Her singlet now covers her skin at the small of her back, but the skin of her shoulders is still visible, some freckles there. Last night I planted a gentle kiss goodnight there on her left shoulder, right before we’d climbed into bed, knowing she was still upset about her sister’s news.
Well practiced hands flick hair into a loose pony tail with a hair tie which will inevitably end up on the floor or vanity sink, and at some point later it will end up in one of our dog’s mouths. Falling to just above her shoulder blades, her hair isn’t as long as she wore it when we met, and now as a pony tail it sits even higher.
“Hey, Bridge,” I say, and I catch her eyes when she faces me right in our doorway. “Thanks for waking me.”
She smirks her cute little smirk. “Forgetting to set your alarm is a sign of growing old, old man, but lucky you have me to help you out.”
And a sign of drinking too much, my mind adds.
“Yeah, lucky me,” I say with a slight shake of my head and a smile, actually meaning it today because I am lucky to have her, but I’ve delivered the message with a hint of sarcasm to keep her guessing. Overtly shifting my gaze to her chest, I continue, hopefully with a disarming smile rather than a sleazy leering one, but I hope to make a joke out of the truth, because it’s my way. “Oh, and I was checking you out. You look great, Bridge. Even if you do have a few grey hairs creeping in.”
She almost laughs, I’m sure, then shakes her head, gives an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, and I chuckle, and she turns and calls for Peggy to follow her.
Arrow starts after them with his waddling gait, and I say, “Hey, old boy,” and he turns and looks to me with his wise old puppy dog eyes, wagging his tail now, and I pat his head. “I think the girls will leave us old men in their dust these days, don’t you?”
He sits and lays his head on the edge of the bed, which is about as much as we’ve ever encouraged our dogs to be on our furniture, and when I stretch and yawn and walk into the ensuite, he slowly follows, laying on the floor right outside the door, looking up at me while start my ritual, preparing to shave.
Tired green eyes in the mirror stare back at me, greying stubble on fuller cheeks and seemingly rounder jaw than in my more angular-cut younger days, light blondish-brown curly bed hair increasingly replaced with salt and pepper grey, exactly like Bridget implied. I don’t think it’s Bridget who ever has to worry about her looks, and I don’t normally worry about mine until I look in the mirror like this.
Note to self: stop looking in mirrors.
I think, or know I’m overdue for some maintenance. And come to think of it, Bridget and I are overdue for some maintenance too, I reckon. I don’t want her second guessing our relationship in a similar way to how her sister is apparently doing so in her own relationship. Bridget and I should work at us some more, because it doesn’t seem to come as easy to us in this busy day and age like it once did when we got it right most of the time without seemingly having to try too much. Right, I’ll start by smoothing my stubble face.
~0~
Okay, so there’s only one thing you need to know about the meeting this morning, which is, I told you so. The minister barely looked at the report, flicking through a few pages while we discussed things, not even stopping to look at the pretty figures and info graphs I’d added and modified, all before handing the additional copies to one of his staffers.
We talked the talk, saying all the right things, knowing this was a game, where we were in full sales mode, even if the whole project was part of an ongoing commitment by the State Government to provide sustainable infrastructure, future proofing the…
Jesus Christ, I’m still in bloody meeting with government minister mode!
Bottom line, we finished with the shaking of many hands and giving copious smiles, then walked out of the room knowing the bureaucrats and other public servants like Amanda and myself will continue or take over proceedings, doing the real work behind the scenes.
Now things will proceed at government pace, which is mostly the opposite of fast, and the politicians will only come out to play again when it’s time to make positive announcements at opening ceremonies in front of cameras. And let’s face it, by then it’ll likely be some new minister who’s replaced this one in the next election cycle.
Fuck. That. Off.
I check my phone for missed calls and messages, having felt it buzz in my pocket during the meeting. It’s a text from one of my oldest friends, Rob, simply asking, Liquid lunch, Victory Hotel, 12?
Yes. I didn’t even hesitate to respond.
Great, see you there, mate.
“Rick, great job on the meeting, I really appreciate the work you did yesterday,” Amanda says while I pocket my phone.
“No worries, Mandy. We did it, it’s over, even if they didn’t open the report.”
“I know,” she says, nodding in a knowing and perhaps exasperated manner. “But we can move forward now.”
“Yes. Great. I’m excited.”
Woo!
I’m not really excited, just tired.
“Yes, we live in exciting times.” She looks at her watch, a new Garmin I’d noticed, stating, “Would you look at the time, it’s eleven thirty already.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun, ay.”
She chuckles. “I’m feeling quite hungry, would you like join me for a bite to eat?”
“Ah, sorry, Mandy,” I say, screwing my face up apologetically, “I’m already heading out for lunch. Catching up with an old school mate.”
“Oh, no problems then, I’ll get something on the way back to the office.” She actually looks disappointed and for a moment I think of telling her we’ll do it some other time, but before I do she smiles and tells me, “I’ll see you back there.”
“Sure, I’ll be back after lunch. Probably around one to one-thirty. But you should take the afternoon off, you totally deserve it after staying back last night.” I give her a grin, adding, “I give you permission.”
She smiles, giving a cheeky look, and says, “I might just do it. But unfortunately Julian wants to go over some things this afternoon…”
Because of course he does… “Yeah, well, don’t let him keep you too long, you totally deserve a break. You were back till after six last night, right?”
“Six-thirty. And you deserve a break too, Rick,” she says. “Thanks again for the work you did yesterday. I really do appreciate it. Take a day off next week, you’ve earned it.”
“Yeah, thanks, I’ll think about it.”
“No, you take a day off, because I know how many extra hours you put in.”
“We all do and will continue to do so for as long as governments need us.”
She laughs. “Or they discard us in some departmental shake up.”
“They’ll never get rid of you, Mandy. You’re the glue holding us together.”
“Sucking up to the boss will get you everywhere,” she says with a smirk.
“Maybe I should try this tactic with Bridget sometime.” My comment was flippant and immediately annoys me for some reason I can’t put my finger on. Maybe because Bridget was on my mind all morning?
Amanda’s smile is warm at the mention of Bridget. “How is your delightful wife?”
“She’s great.” I mean, what else could I say? “She’s busy with a whole bunch of things on the go, but, I don’t know, she’s brilliant. I don’t think she’s appreciated enough at her work though and I wish they’d give her a more permanent contract, she bloody deserves it.”
“Ah, you two. It’s so lovely to hear a man complimenting his wife like you do. I don’t think Kevin ever said anything complimentary about me in our twenty-four years of marriage.”
Twenty-four years and no compliments? Surely not. But whatever the truth is, she didn’t feel the love from Kevin, even before he pursued one of the young women from his office. His loss, because Amanda’s great.
“I couldn’t fault her even if I tried,” I say, talking about Bridget of course. Then I chuckle. “Well, almost, she has one fault. She dated a Rugby League player for a few months, but it was when she was nineteen, a couple of years before she met me.”
And I can tell you, she dodged a serious bullet there, but I ain’t going into it. Bridget herself made the joke this former boyfriend was her one fault when I once told her she is perfect, but I shouldn’t have even brought it up with someone else, where Bridget would be horrified. I should keep my fucking mouth shut sometimes.