A Certain Way by Renee Blaine
April, 2007 - ISBN 978-1-59426-937-0
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It was my own fault.
It was Friday, the night I always worked late at the bank. I was never home before seven, and my husband, Richard, would have dinner from the Crock Pot dished up and waiting for me when I walked in. He didn't like eating alone, and besides, I had to heat the rolls before we could eat. We had a routine, and my coming home early was not part of that routine. He liked things a certain way.
It was my own fault.
My favorite lingerie shop was having its semi-annual sale and I had gone shopping during my lunch hour. I wanted to surprise him with my purchases. Lately, he had seemed more and more distant, and when he was speaking to me, or paying attention, it was as though I had done something wrong. He'd started complaining about the size of my breasts, going so far as to make an appointment for me to have a consultation for augmentation. I'd tried to broach the subject several times, as I was quite happy with the comfortably full breasts I'd been given by nature, but he brushed me aside. He liked things a certain way.
Everything was a certain way--his.
The house was quiet when I pulled into the driveway. The garage door was closed, and a single light burned in the living room against the growing dusk. I smiled, pleased that my boss had allowed me to leave a couple hours early, that I had made it home before Richard. I pulled my bags from the car and pushed the door closed with my hip, walking through the neatly tended bank of flowers and shrubs that bordered the sidewalk to our front door. I stopped to smell one of the last roses of summer, breaking the half-open bud off the bush. I'd put it beside the bed to perfume the air while we made love.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. The warm, comforting scent of pot roast and home rushed out to embrace me. I had a bottle of Richard's favorite Burgundy in one of the bags--I'd open it, let it breathe, and go shower and get dressed. When he came home I'd be waiting for him, with a glass of wine, a home-cooked meal, and a wife dressed in silk and lace for his pleasure. He would be happy, I thought, and maybe we could actually talk, and re-explore our marriage.
Turning down the hallway, I started towards our bedroom, intending to start the bath running before making my side trip into the kitchen. The door was just slightly ajar, and flickering golden light spilled through the crack. I stopped in the hallway, puzzled. A soft, feminine giggle clarified everything for me. I bent and put my bags on the floor, quietly, and tiptoed to the door, peeking in.
My entire life had been a matter of playing second fiddle to my sisters. I had three, all beautiful and talented statuesque blue-eyed blondes with larger breasts, better figures, and more sex appeal than I had ever had. I was the shy one, the quiet one with the mousy brown hair and odd green eyes, and when I'd come home with my handsome, successful fiancé, the one question in all their minds had been, "Why you?" Admittedly, I had been quietly smug about my catch, happy to tell them what a marvelous man he was, glossing over the minor setbacks and uneasiness in our relationship.
My younger sister, Cara, was straddling my husband, laughing as he licked and nibbled at her breasts.