Page 9 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I kiss her back.
Four
Faye
Gasping, I whip around, tearing my eyes from the window.
From the sight of Gray Roberts—captain of the San Jose Grizzlies hockey team and the most gorgeous member of the opposite sex I’ve ever had the privilege to lay eyes on—and the beautiful woman who showed up, strolled in, and dared to kiss him with barely any preamble.
And he kissed her back.
His wife. Or soon-to-be-ex-wife. Or is it wife?
I can’t keep up—just know from the neighborhood hubbub (and maybe my online research, for book purposes only)—that his relationship with his wife (or not), Courtney, brings complicated to a whole new level.
I’ve tried to leave it at that, to not invade his privacy…
But that—my eyes go back through the window—doesn’t seem very not.
Unable to stop myself, I keep watching them as I do the dishes from my dinner for one—daydreaming about a life that isn’t me waking up at home by myself. That also isn’t making breakfast for myself and working at home…you guessed it, by myself. And eating lunch by myself, taking my after work walk (by myself), eating dinner, also by myself, and then bingeing whatever hot TV show is on social media until I’m too tired to stay awake—and doing it by myself.
And then—worst of all—going to sleep.
By myself.
I have friends, though they’re mostly online. I have a job I love, though that’s also mostly online. So it’s not like I’m a total loner.
I just…spend a lot of time on my own.
Gray picks up the beautiful woman, lifting her like she weighs nothing and setting her on the kitchen counter. Then?—
“Oh!” I exclaim, dropping the dish I was washing and ripping my gaze away.
That’s…
Well, that’s a version of oral sex I’ve never seen before.
I’ve thought about it.
Written about it.
I’ve just?—
My gaze drifts back.
Never seen it in real life.
Heat floods my cheeks, fills my middle…flickers between my legs.
And right on the wake of that wave of pleasure, shame chases me, nipping at my heels. I close my eyes, count to ten.
“Enough,” I whisper, slitting them open, focusing on the task at hand.
I find that at least I didn’t break the plate.
Moving slowly and deliberately, I pick it up from the basin and finish washing it. Then move just as slowly and deliberately as I reach over, set it in the rack to dry, then repeat the process with the remaining cutlery and my wine glass and the pan I used to sear my single chicken breast, to cook my single serving of asparagus.
I promise myself I’ll give Gray—and his woman, whatever state they are—privacy, but the pervert in me can’t stop my eyes from drifting back out my window, from sliding across our adjoining side yards toward his window, from?—
