It was midnight by the time I finally kicked off my heels, and collapsed onto the couch. The brilliant white couch welcomed my exhausted ass, still as new as when we had bought it five years ago. The bookshelves surrounded me, mocking me with their contents, reminding me that the last time I’d touched them had been a month ago–and that had just been to dust.
My wine glass dangled from my fingers, already half-emptied on the walk from the kitchen. I chugged down more, before starting the arduous process of stripping down. A clinging white blouse, pushup bra, thong, and pencil skirt were excellent work attire (and had undoubtedly helped earn me my last promotion from that blasted Mr. Davis), but they were not comfortable home attire. My E-cup breasts fell from their lacey prison, and I flexed my back, letting muscles shift and loosen.
Above me, I heard Tom groaning as he got to his feet. I pictured him, all five-foot-five pounds of beard, creativity, and passion, struggling to wake from a sound sleep. I pictured his ruffled ginger head, that had only now began to thin. I pictured him, and I broke a bit inside.