Chapter 8

I had given the children an early dinner after Mark's call, telling me he'd be late. I decided to-wait for him to eat rather than eat with the kids. I was in a good mood from this afternoon's get-together with Tony Salerno. My cunt ached so pleasurably from the reaming out his wonderful cock gave me, that the very idea of fucking with Mark would be anti-climatical. What a cock! Tony Salerno was a bachelor who could teach most husbands a thing or two about making love to wives.

I thought back to this morning, at how horny I'd been. Snuggling under the covers and sucking Mark's cock-and then have him put me off!

I laughed lewdly to myself.

Good old Mark was probably coming home horny and guilty for turning me down.

I'll let him wonder why I'm no longer in the mood, I thought, feeling deliciously wicked. I rubbed my cunt through my dress. It was still sore.

I must tell Lynda about Tony, I reminded myself.

I heard the front door open.

"Hi, Daddy! Hi!"

"Hiya Dad!-Mom! Dad's home!"

"Hi, honey!" I called out. I checked the chicken in the oven. Almost done.

I heard Mark kiss the children, spend a few moments with them, then break away. A moment later, he entered the kitchen door. He seemed tired and haggard. He still had his jacket on, but his tie hung limp down the front of his shirt. The tie looked like him: lifeless and inanimate-just hanging there.

"Like a drink before dinner?" I asked.

"No." He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, took out a bottle of coke. He took the cap from the bottle, and began to sip the soda.

"Use a glass!"

"I just wanted a little. I was thirsty."

"Have a hard day?" I checked the even again. Soon.

"A bitch."

"I'll bet."

"You upset, Wendy?"

"I thought you were going to come home early today? Or did you forget this morning?"

Mark didn't answer right away. He took his jacket off and folded it over one of the kitchen chairs. I was about to yell at him when he shook off my annoyance with a wave of his hand. He sat down in. the chair.

"I've got to talk to you about that, Wendy," he said.

"Can't it wait? Dinner's almost ready."

"I guess it can wait, but I want to get it out of the way now."

That sounded serious. I sat down at the table with him, expecting to hear the worst.

"I have to go to Chicago," Mark said.

"So-" Part of Mark's job meant that he had to travel occasionally. It never was a problem before.

"Next week," he said.

I was silent, not quite comprehending.

"Your birthday," he said. He grit his teeth and drew back his lips as though grimacing.

"You're going to miss my birthday!" I said, suddenly understanding. "Oh, Mark!"

"I can't help it. I'm sorry, hon."

"But Mark! My birthday!"

"What can I do?"

"Put it off. Go another week!"

"You know I can't do that-"

"But you promised. My birthday, Mark!"

"All right!" he said. He was getting annoyed. I could tell he was genuinely sorry, and I think that's what was bothering him. Men often get mad when they're frustrated. They don't know how else to react.

I was silent.

"Now just cut it out! I don't like it this way, but there is nothing we can do." I stayed silent.

"That's the way it is. There's nothing we can do about it." He tried to make the finality of the thing sound reasonable.

I didn't react. I just sat there, with my eyes glaring at him.

Guilt finally overcame his frustration. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am, Wendy."

But I felt like a bitch. Disappointment was something I never learned to accept maturely. I was hurt and mad, and I blamed Mark. I know that was unreasonable, and it wasn't his fault. But I had to blame someone!

"I guess that means what we planned is off," I said bitterly.

"What do you mean?" he asked. My opening: "You know." The words came out icily cold.

"What do you mean?"

"Forget already?"

"Wendy, I really don't know-oh! You mean the hotel. Go away for the weekend!"

"Yes. Or was that just an empty promise, too?"

"No. Of course we'll go away! Next week. After I come home. I promise."

I lapsed into silence again.

Mark touched the side of my face and tried to lean forward to kiss me. I pulled my face away. I'd gotten to the point to where I'd accepted the disappointment, but still didn't like it.

"Don't be like that," Mark said. He tried to kiss me again. I turned my face and he kissed me on the cheek.

I tried one more possibility. "Could I come with you?" I asked.

"Oh, Wendy!" Mark said. Anguish filled the words. I could guess the answer from the way he had said my name.

"Well?"

"You know that'd be impossible. The company's paying for my fare. We can't afford-"

"Not even a birthday present?"

"That's unfair, Wendy."

"Of course it was: that's why I asked it."

"Look," Mark began. "Even if we could afford for you to come, there would be nothing for you to do. I have meetings, appointments, presentations to make. It's a business trip, Wendy!"

I was tempted to say-"What kind of business"-but I swallowed the sarcasm and kept it to myself.

Mark smiled. "I'm sorry, hon."

I was playing with the bread crumbs scattered across the kitchen table. I was rolling them around with the tip of my finger.

"Say." Mark said. His voice was bright and happy, as though everything was settled. "What's for dinner? I'm starved!"

Dinner!

"The chicken!" I exclaimed. I'd forgotten it.

I ran to the oven and threw it open. Burnt.

I couldn't help it. I just started to cry.

"Ah, come on, honey," Mark said. He held me in his arms. "Don't cry. Well eat out tonight."

The chicken! I thought. Does he really think I'm crying over the chicken!