Page 4 of Illicit Rendezvous

The sky is painted with bright pinks and purples as the sun begins its descent to the horizon. I’m glad I made it home before dark, I needed to go to the grocery store again for what seemed like the thirtieth time this week. With how much the boys are eating from their current growth spurts, I seem to spend all my free time cruising the snack aisles.

Rounding my silver minivan, I pop the trunk and determinately hang all the grocery bags from my arms.

This bitch doesn’t make two trips.

While juggling my purchases, I attempt to gracefully close the trunk but that’s not happening. My bottle of soft scrub decides to be an asshole and tries to escape the confines of its plastic bag. I fumble, grab it, then stick it under my chin, holding it against my chest.

I’m not even three steps from my vehicle when my tennis shoe makes a loud squishing noise as if I stepped in a puddle of mud. I can’t remember the last time it rained, but I can’t look down in fear of losing my soft scrub.

Once inside, I make my way to the kitchen and plop my cargo on the counter with a huff. It feels good to get rid of all that weight, and now I can markLiftingoff my to-do list for the month.

Ready to catch up on all the shows I've missed throughout the week with a cocktail, I put the groceries away much faster than I usually do when I’m tripping over kids. I’m about to grab a bag of my favorite BBQ potato chips from the pantry, but I stop when a disgusting, putrid smell assaults my nostrils.

What. The. Fuck.

Ground into the tread on the bottom of my shoe is fucking dog shit. And I trailed it across my light beige carpeting of my living room and onto the tile of my kitchen floor.

Ugh. There goes my night.

Angrily, I kick my clean shoe off at the opposite wall. It sounds with a loud thunk at the contact, the noise only slightly satisfying. Later I would be thankful it hadn’t left a dent or a skid mark on the cream paint, however right now, I’m in no mood to look at the glass as half full.

Very carefully, I step out of my soiled shoe attempting not to spread the mess any more than it is. My throat flexes at the stench and acid coats my tongue. Ugh, this is why I refuse to own dogs.

To stop myself from gagging, I hold my breath and stomp up the stairs in stocking feet. There's a maze of toys and the boy's sports equipment cluttering the hall like land mines. I have to shuffle around them on the way to my room so I don’t trip and fall on my face. That would only add injury to insult right now.

I cross my fairly clean bedroom and arrive at the dark stained dresser that holds my comfy clothes. These are the clothes that can be wrinkled because I only wear them around the house. Unlike my scrubs that need to be ironed and hung in my small, walk-in closet. Which reminds me, I have tons of laundry to wash. I hold back my sardonic laughter thinking of how my night was supposed to be relaxing but will be filled with cleaning dog excrement from my carpet and ironing my uniforms.

Quickly rifling through my drawers, I grab a matching purple crop top and legging set. I forcefully yank off my scrubs as if they insulted my grandma’s cooking and leave them in a heap on the floor. I slip on my clean items, adjust my hair and trudge back downstairs, my anger not abating one bit.

The mess is still there, staring back at me like a disgusting Rorschach test. If I squint, I think I can discern a hand holding up the middle finger in the pattern of crap. This mess is going to have me up all night, cleaning and sanitizing.

At the bottom of the landing, my fists clench when I spot Tillie's gray and white stuffed dog covered in the smelly substance. The longer I stare at her favorite toy on the ground, the deeper I dig my nails into my palms. I don’t have to look to know there will be red crescent shaped marks when I release my fist. I hadn’t realized I stepped on it when I was trekking through the house. It must have fallen out of my diaper bag this morning during all the chaos. It’s her favorite and I covered it in shit. The sight of it lying ruined on the floor pushes me past my breaking point.

That’s. It.

Fire licks at my fuse, lighting it. The flame travels along the wick, creeping through my veins until it reaches its destination, igniting the bomb. The explosion of pent up anger and fury and irritation explodes like dynamite on my chest, causing it to flush to a cherry shade of red.

Cleaning up after the kids is one thing. It sucks but I chose to have them and they’re my responsibility. Plus, I love those little assholes.

I didn’t choose to have dogs that for some reason are obsessed with being in my yard.

I’m sick of Gideon being unable to keep his Goliath ass dogs off my property.

I pinch the tongue of my soiled shoe between my fingers and hold it at arm's length as I slide on the flip-flops I keep at the door.

“Gideon, what the fuck?” I yell, descending my front steps toward his house.

I’m drawn to the light from his garage that’s pouring into his yard, like a moth that’s angry as fuck. He was inside of it, working on his motorcycle when I pulled into my driveway, so that’s where I’m headed. With as loud as I’m tromping I know he hears me coming.

The silver tool in his hand glints as he sets it on his toolbox and straightens. “Mick, calm down. What’s wrong?” he asks, as he takes long strides, meeting me in the middle of his yard.

One thing a man his age should know is when you see a woman who is clearly upset, you never tell her to calm down. Doing so only invalidates her feelings and will likely piss her off even more. Plus, it’s just damn annoying.

“This!” I shout, dropping my shit-covered shoe at his feet as if it’s a used condom. “I was late to work because Thor and Zeus were in my goddamn yard again, and now I have to clean the crap out of my carpet.”

He drags his eyes up from the evidence on the lawn. "Michaella, calm down," he repeats.

Once again, with thecalm down. Then he called me Michaella. I hate when people call me Michaella. It reminds me of my ex Kevin who called me that all the time. Having a wife named Mickie didn’t fit the persona of the professional investment banker he strived to be.

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