I hate it when Brittainy is bored. Nights are the worst. Tonight, she slips in the back door just before midnight. I hear the tinkling of glass in the kitchen and know without asking that she is pouring herself a cordial of absinthe. If I didn’t love her so, I’d fuss at her for taking the good stuff.
I remain still, stretched across the enormous leather couch in front of the fireplace, my eyes scanning the little book of Italian poetry that was open in my hand. I haven’t read a word of it since I heard Britt working her key in the lock.
Now, her heels click across the wood floor and she sways across the room, all tanned and beautifully coiffed, and flops into the chair across from me. I sigh lightly, laying the book face down on my chest and look at her, knowing what’s coming.
Britt licks her lips and sips at the glass in her hand, her eyes drifting closed as the pale green shimmer of absinthe slides into her mouth.
“So, where are we off to tonight, dearest?” I say, with a slightly false enthusiasm. I had been looking forward to a quiet night of recuperation.
She crosses and uncrosses her legs at the knee, and I can see from under the edge of her short skirt that she’s put on the tiny black thong I’d given her for her last birthday. Yes, it was going to be a long night.
Taking a deep breath and slowly swallowing the mouthful of absinthe, she smiles brightly, her pale sea-blue eyes dancing with mischief.
“Where else?”, she says with a small chuckle.
“Eclipse.” I refrain from sighing. As I look at her, flashes of images from last night flip through my head like an old pictograph, and I can feel the tension building in my belly. Didn’t she realize I was trying to behave?
“Okay, give me ten, darling.” I roll onto my belly and push myself up onto my hands and peel away from the leather. As I’m climbing the stairs, I force my mind to peruse the contents of my closet, just to keep from thinking what the night might have in store…