The lock clicked behind Mark, the sound swallowed by the familiar drone of the evening news bleeding from the living room. Same time, same channel, same low murmur that had become the soundtrack to his evenings for the past few years. He dropped his keys into the cheap ceramic bowl on the hall table – the one Sarah had picked out, saying its bright yellow added ‘a pop of color.’ Mark thought it just looked cheap, but he hadn’t said so. Easier not to.
He loosened his tie, the knot stiff against his Adam’s apple. Another Tuesday done. Another day pushing papers, nodding through meetings, pretending the quarterly reports held the secrets to the universe. They didn’t. They just held numbers. Numbers that paid the mortgage on this quiet house in this quiet suburb, the house where Sarah was probably already plating up dinner. Chicken again, most likely. Or maybe pasta. Predictable. Safe.
Mark walked towards the living room archway, catching a glimpse of Sarah moving in the kitchen beyond. His wife. Sarah. Even after seven years, the word still felt solid, foundational. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a moment before she noticed him.
She was humming something tuneless, her back to him as she stirred something on the stove. Her dark hair, usually tied back neatly when she was cooking, had slipped loose from its clip, a few wavy strands curling against the smooth skin of her neck. Mark’s eyes traced the curve of that neck, down her spine, to the way her jeans hugged her ass. They were her usual pair, faded blue denim, worn soft in all the right places. He knew the exact shape of her beneath the fabric, the slight dip above the swell of each cheek. He’d cupped that ass countless times, pulled her tight against him. It was a good ass. His good ass.
She turned then, spatula in hand, and a smile touched her lips when she saw him. “Oh, hey. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“Quiet as a mouse,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking towards her.
