Darryl’s wife was perfect. Even lying in bed with designer sheets gathered under her delicate chin, she was everything he’d ever wanted. Her strawberry blond hair somehow managed to arrange itself artfully even in sleep, and then there was the promise of her cornflower blue eyes just under the delicate tracery of her lightly fluttering eyelids. He wanted to kiss her, but knew he’d wake her. She was a light sleeper.
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She was dreaming. The slight movement underneath her eyelids gave her away. Looking in the mirror at his own balding, overweight reflection standing there in tattered boxer briefs, he couldn’t help but wonder who she dreamt about. Was it the waiter that poured her wine last week during their anniversary dinner? The prick had certainly smiled enough, while stealing glances into the tasteful expanse of her cleavage He’d thought no one noticed. She’d pretended not to, but her cleavage noticed and it had enough sense to blush. He’d known better than to mention it though. It would only start an argument.
So he’d been a little rough in bed that night. Well, more than a little, to tell the truth. In her perfection, she’d thought he was just being kinky and got carried away. She even admitted liking it later over breakfast going so far as to shake her bottom at him over his grits and eggs. She had spunk, make no mistake about it. He knew it was only a matter of time before she realized she could do better than his spreading middle and male-pattern baldness. She’d leave him and how close to perfect would he be then? He knew his place in the world. He’d heard it whispered behind his back often enough. He was the lucky stiff who’d married up. She’s with that? I know. Can you believe it?
To tell the truth he’d never really believed it himself. Some things were just too good to last. There was no other choice, so he held the pillow hard over her perfect face, while a single tear of relief wandered down his stubbled cheek. His perfect wife would be his forever.
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