After Party
She lifts a glass from the coffee table, swirls the remaining bead of merlot out of habit.
He takes a broom to the floor and herds crumbs, along with wisps of dust and strands of her hair, into one neat little pile. He grimaces, looks up from his task to see her, yet again, checking her cell phone.
“Talking to your boyfriend again?” he says, no trace of humor in his voice.
“What is it to you?” she snaps. That his wife could be so cavalier infuriates him. He leans the broom against the bookshelf and sits on the loveseat, lets out an audible sigh.
“Besides,” she continues, “you had your eyes on her all night. I’m surprised I didn’t catch you two fucking in the spare bedroom.” He gleams at this thought for a moment, imagining her body under his, catching her rhythm, her full breasts leaking milk on the pile of coats. He is turned on.
“You’re joking, right? Besides, she just had my brother’s baby.” That her husband could be so self-righteous shoots a hot wave of anger through her. She sets her phone down and stuffs a stale tortilla chip from the half-empty bowl into her mouth. She makes a particularly noisy show of it, as she knows he hates hearing people eat. He glares at her.
After three minutes of silence, he gets up and returns to his pile; she drifts over to the kitchen sink.
“So what are we going to do?” she asks, whirling a soapy sponge over a plate. He stoops down to get the dustpan.
“Finish cleaning up and then go to bed,” he says.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says.
“I know.” He empties the remains of the evening into the trashcan and joins her at the sink, lifting a towel to the dish she promptly hands him.
