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"Bonsoir," she grinned broadly.
"Bonsoir," I mumbled.
When I said she should make herself at home, I imagined she’d put her stuff in closets. I didn’t expect my kitchen to look like something out of a cookbook, with colorful jars of spices, mismatched vintage utensils, and eclectic decor filling every surface.
I cleared my throat. "I told you I already ate."
"Then you can keep me company while I eat," she suggested cheerfully.
I had lied. I hadn't eaten. The smell of her food was making my mouth water. "What are you making?"
"Poulet Colombo." She checked something in the oven, and I saw her dress tighten around her very pert ass.
"What's that?"
"It's a classic Martinican dish. A chicken curry made with a blend of spices, like turmeric, coriander, and cumin, along with garlic, onions, and coconut milk. I serve it with rice." She stood up and winked at me. "I think a man of your appetite will like something spicy like this."
"My appetite?" I inquired.
"Yes," she smirked, not in a malicious way but, fuck me, she was flirting with me. "I opened a bottle of Amarone. It's off-dry, so it'll go well with the spices." She paused, "You do eat spicy food, don't you?"
Yeah, baby, I do. And I'd like to eat your pussy right about now, which smells like vanilla and tastes like…fuck!I had to stop thinking about her pussy, her ass, her skin.
"I need a shower," I muttered and left her in the kitchen.
"Food's ready in twenty minutes," she called out after me like we were anormalcouple and this was what we did every night.
My wife was an enigma. I didn't know what the hell to do with her.
I texted Dean:She's cooking.
Dean replied immediately, which made me wonder what time zone he was in:What's she making?"
Me:Something called poulet Colombo.
Dean:I love food from Martinique.
He'd know. Dean loved to eat and knew of every great hole in the wallandMichelin-star restaurant in most cities in the world.
Me:What the heck am I supposed to do?
Dean:You think she might spit in your food?
Me:What?
Dean:Eat the fucking food, you moron.
Me:Right. Shower first. Watching her cooking is fucking erotic.
Dean:TMI, brother. TMI.
After five minutes, Dean sends another message:Just saw her photo on her boulangerie’s website. Fuck, she's hot.
Me:She's my fucking wife, asshole.
Dean:And she's hot. Enjoy your COLD shower.
I didn't enjoy my shower. It was frustrating as hell because my bedroom and bathroom smelled of vanilla. I had hoped that she'd choose one of the guest bedrooms. No, that's a lie. I had hoped that she'd do exactly what she did, but now that she had, I wondered about my sanity. Could I fuck her? We were married, so I should be able to fuck her, right?
