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One
Unhappy
My arms full of shopping bags and groceries, I pushed through the front door of my one-bedroom apartment backwards, shutting the door with my foot as the keys dropped onto the entryway table. With the various corded and twisted plastic handles pinching painfully at the soft flesh of my fingers, I stumbled quickly past the kitchen and into the small living room, where I released my burden to its temporary home on the carpeted floor. I flexed my aching fingers, hoping to draw the blood back into circulation, and glanced at the clock: ten to five. Good, I thought. Fred wouldn’t be home for another hour.
Quickly, I put most of the groceries away, set up the dinner table with a few decorations, a candle and some wine glasses, then grabbed the shopping and dashed to the bedroom. I undressed with the speed and tidiness of an F4 tornado, laying out a few of the new items on the bed. Which to wear? I thought. The cute racer-back tank with lace detailing and jean booty shorts? Maybe the nighttime look of the shimmery teal blue maxi dress? Wait, I know…
I slid into my brand new teeny weeny white bathing suit, with green and blue polka dots. This was my first ever bikini, which was saying something for a thirty-year-old woman. I didn’t even have one as a teen. I was always a little chunky—or, honestly, more than chunky—and was never comfortable enough with my body to dare trying one. And to say teeny weeny meant compared to every other one-piece I had ever worn. I was happy to find one with enough support for my girls that didn’t look like some sort of homage to eighties Madonna, and a bottom that didn’t resemble butt floss. Because to be honest, that wasn’t happening. I needed something that covered the rear, not let it all hang out.
I checked the time once more: half-past.
Perfect. I’m right on schedule.
I jogged out to the kitchen, not used to the feel of so much bare skin, especially since it was mid-March in southern Connecticut, and everyone was still wearing heavy jackets and sweaters outside. I needed to get used to it if I was going to feel comfortable going out in public in it.
Just breathe.
I took out the salmon I’d bought special for that night. It was always Fred’s favorite, and I hated fish, so I wanted to show him just how special this surprise was by cooking something I could barely stand the smell of. It took about twenty minutes to cook and make it presentable on a plate, which I set on the small kitchen table for two, and left it under a cover to keep it warm. My dinner—chicken breast marinated in Italian dressing—I set before my chair with its own cover.
Note to self: Cook food before putting on a bikini. The apron you have does not cover your back, and hot grease hurts.
This left me just enough time to set up my stage. I grabbed my new sunglasses, set a few pillows out against the front of the couch in the living room, and propped myself against them as if I was lounging in the sun on a beach somewhere. I fluffed my wavy red hair out, letting it fall over my shoulders naturally, and then I bent, twisted, and fidgeted into the appearance of a relaxed pose. I positioned my lemonade in a fancy glass, complete with bendy straw, sugar on the rim, and a little umbrella, just within reach to complete the scene.
I thought about how much we needed this—how much I needed this. I’d imagined his reaction to this moment for at least a week: how his gaze would drink in my sultry form, how he’d be so excited by the very idea of my surprise that he’d ravish me right here on the couch. The thought had pushed my libido to the brink, and since it had been a while since we’d given into our carnal desires, I was more than ready to be unleashed.
Keys jingled in the door.
Final checks: bikini top is still holding, bottom has stayed in place and not ridden up to where it shouldn’t be, sunglasses down. Perfect!
The door opened, and I heard Fred set his keys on the entry table.
“Hi, sweetie,” I called cheerily.
“Hey,” he sighed.
I heard his feet shuffling toward the small office on the other side of the apartment, and I got anxious. What if he stays in there for hours like he always does after work? I don’t want him to sit at his desk and forget to eat, only coming to bed hours after I’ve already fallen asleep. He couldn’t have forgotten, right? Not today. I should catch him before the door closes.
“Babe?” I called. “Hey, babe?”
“Hm?”
“Can you join me in the living room for a minute?”
There was a pause in foot shuffling, then it headed toward me. He entered the room, glasses in hand, habitually cleaning the lenses. He froze when he saw me, posed like a girl in a beer ad, drink in hand, nervously awaiting a response. He slipped his glasses back onto his face and stared, confusion painting his expression. “What the hell are you doing? Aren’t you freezing? You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” I said, trying on a flirtatious smirk. “We always say we’re going to travel someday, but something always comes up. I checked with my job and yours, and there’s nothing planned for the early part of next month. So I went ahead and booked us a vacation in Fiji! Surprise!”
I stayed there, seated on the floor with my glass raised in a salute, grinning like a madwoman, waiting for his response.
And I waited.
And waited.
I put my glass down and changed my grin into a hopeful smile. “Well?”
“When?” he asked, his dark brown eyes still showing confusion, mixed with a little deep thought.
“I booked it for ten days, from the fourth to the thirteenth—”
