Easy As Falling Off A Dyke.
by Angharad
part: 329

I lay in bed and reflected on the evening. The meal had been pretty good, or mine had. The melon entrée, the grilled leg of lamb steak and raspberry roulade dessert had left me feeling very full. Simon had fed well too, and had had three glasses of wine to my one. I got nominated to drive us home, which in the Saab, I didn’t enjoy too much–don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely car, but twice as big as my Golf.

I got us home, my heart still beating fast as I recalled the drive. Nothing happened, but it was an adrenalin rush all the way. Then, helping Simon up the stairs, he hadn’t done himself any favours having a large brandy before we left. I did manage to get him undressed before he fell asleep, a state he was still in, snoring like a lawn-mower. So much for my staying awake when we got home!

I did eventually manage to fall asleep, but it was hard work trying to shut out Simon’s impressions of a powerful motorbike with a damaged exhaust. I woke some hours later, needing a wee. He’d obviously turned over because his jet engine had switched off, I just hoped it didn’t go into reversed thrust once I got back to bed.

The next morning, a Saturday, we both slept in a bit. Normally, Si, is up by six often earlier. Today it was after nine before we woke up. After he’d gone to the loo and dived back under the covers, he snuggled up and got romantic. I’d lost the moment, about six hours before and although more than happy to cuddle, didn’t want anything extra.

I lay on my side facing away from him, he had a hand on my breast stroking it gently–it was nice, but that was all. For him it seemed to be having a more marked affect, because something was poking me in the lower part of my back. I tried to ignore it, but he was practically pleading with me.

“I was ready last night.”

“I had a bit of brewer’s last night.”

“Did you know that it doesn’t actually mean alcohol induced impotence. It’s to do with a Dr Brewer.”

“I didn’t and I am not impotent, see for yourself.”

“I’d prefer to look at some breakfast cereal,” I said.

“You cut me to the quick, Cathy Watts.”

“Look Simon, I had to listen to you all night giving a rendition of the snoring chorus from Rip van Winkle.”

“There’s no such piece, is there?”

“Only because I haven’t written it yet, but it does go on for twenty years, which is shorter than it felt last night.”

“I’m sorry, babes.”

“I am very tired and not interested in anything more energetic than eating breakfast, sorry and all that…” I was anything but repentant, but he didn’t know that.

When I pulled myself out of bed to go to the loo, I found him exploring my lingerie. “You wore this last night?”

“Yes, but you’d need a bigger size.”

He blushed, “If I’d known you were wearing that, we wouldn’t have got as far as the pub.”

“I’m glad we did, I was quite hungry.”

“Will you put it on again for me?”

“If you like, but not now, I want some breakfast.”

“Aw come on, Cathy, just for me.”

“If I did, Simon, you’d just want to take me to bed and I’ve already said, I’m not interested.”

He looked downcast and sighed, “Okay, go and get your breakfast.”

“If you hadn’t got pissed last night, you would have found me much more willing.”

“Aw c’mon, babes, it was a good meal and someone had to finish the wine.”

“Even if I accept that argument, why did you also have to order a large brandy?”

“Well, you agreed to drive home, so I thought, what the hell?”

“I had to get you in, undress you and then listen to you snore half the night. That’s why I’m not in the mood. If you find my underwear such a turn on, you wear it, because I’m not, I’m going for breakfast.” I pulled on my dressing gown and slippers and left him standing there still holding my lacy bra and pants set.

“Nice evening?” asked Tom as boiled the kettle.

“Was okay.”

“Oh, like that, was it?”

“The food was good, and the wine even better. Ask Simon, he drank most of it.”

“Ah, I don’t think I’ll bother. I erm, have some paperwork to attend to, maybe I’ll go and do it.” Tom, made what could only be described as a tactical withdrawal. I didn’t blame him.

I ate my Rice Crispies and even the whispered popping sound annoyed me this morning. Simon came down, he was dressed and had obviously showered. I said nothing to him but rinsed my dish and put it in the dishwasher. I took my tea and went upstairs. We hadn’t spoken a word.

I showered and dressed casually, I had food shopping to do for the weekend and was already late by my usual routine. I took my coat and bag and left to go to the supermarket.

I was back about an hour and a half later, Simon’s car was gone. I rushed into the house. “Where is Simon?” I shouted at Tom.

“I don’t know, I’ve been working in the study”

I rushed into the kitchen, there was no note. I dashed upstairs, his overnight bag was gone. He’d left. At first I couldn’t believe it, then it seemed the only explanation. He had deserted me. I stood in the middle of the bedroom and burst into tears, this was the last straw. I abandoned the shopping and took to my bed, crying myself to sleep.