Chapter 3: TGIF

Thank God it was Friday. Sylvia Jennings had been through some of the special torments which had originated in the seventh circle of hell, and then been polished by generations of school kids for use on substitute teachers. She did not want to cook; she did not want to make conversation; she didn’t even want to drive home though the drizzle. If she could have, she would have stopped off at a hamburger joint on her way home.

But she was living with a man who would expect her home, expect dinner, would get all huffy and macho if she suggested eating out with her paying the tab. And since his money had been deposited too recently, there was no way he could pick up the tab. If she were to lie down for a while after she got home, he would want to lie down beside her and do stuff. Doing stuff was fun much of the time; George was an attentive and imaginative lover. But the class hadn’t left her with the energy. Living with a man looked romantic from the outside, but experiencing it had its negative aspects.

George greeted her with a kiss, followed by a hug. “Lovely,” she said, “but I have to take off my shoes and start dinner.”

“Dinner is almost ready,” he answered. “Sit here, and I’ll take care of your shoes. No. Lie down.”

He took off her pumps as she lay sprawled on the bed. He massaged her feet. They felt better than they had all day. When he lay beside her, she worked up enough energy to respond to his kiss.

“I love this,” he said, “but dinner isn’t going to cook itself.” As if she hadn’t had to tell him that! But his greeting had been delightful.

So was dinner. He’d made an extra effort. This was truly coming home. She dozed while he cooked, and she woke to his “Dinner is served.”

“Mmm,” she said after she’d tasted the meal, “I think I’ll keep him.”

“You have been keeping me,” he said. “I can pay rent now, though. We’ll settle up after dinner.” That broke her mood a little -- George was so bourgeois -- but only a little. If you had to be nagged about paying debts, being nagged about his paying you was much better than the reverse.

“And how much did your groceries cost?” she asked when they were settling up. “I’ll subtract that.”

“My treat. I decided. I didn’t consult you, and I won’t make you put it in your food budget. I don’t plan to do this often enough to make a dent.”

“Still, it was sweet of you.” And it had been sweet of him.

“Then let me be completely sweet,” he said, starting to wash the dishes without her participation. That was going too far, but she wasn’t about to complain that night.

She was rested, though, and she did some housework while George went back to his typing. She headed for bed earlier than usual, still a little embarrassed to be nude in front of a fully-clothed George, ‘Dejeuner sur l’herbe’ style.

He was equally naked when he joined her, though. His kiss was sweet and gentle at first. When he deepened it, she was eager. “Mmm,” he said. “Bed morning tomorrow?” He was caressing her on the way to her pussy. She didn’t want that now; she was still a bit frazzled.

“Tomorrow, great,” she said. “Not tonight, okay?” Instantly, she was sorry.

“Okay. Cuddle.”

“I’m sorry, George, and you were so nice tonight, too. It’s just that the week was...”

“Hey,” he said. “You don’t need to explain. Tomorrow is fine. Morning love is better. Even better, I mean.” They settled into the spoon, and he hugged her while she took the longest time to get to sleep. He had used a euphemism; this was love. She woke enough to feel him tucking the afghan around her, then dropped back into sleep. She felt much better in the morning.

“Toast?” George offered when she had had her bathroom time.

“Mmm, butter,” she said when she tasted it.

“The chicken required it. So, we have a lot left.”

“Is that check going to last out the month at this rate?” she asked.

“The quarter. The last two checks are somewhere in some country’s mail system. They canceled them and put the whole amount in this one. Anyway, it’s not going to be ‘at this rate.’ I have some special expenses right now, but I’m not going to turn into a wastrel. I came back with one change of clothes, as you well know. I need some more, grateful as I am for your loan. The underwear will pay for itself in fewer trips to the laundromat. I need a robe. I was thinking of a blanket. On the other hand, that afghan forces you to sleep close.”

He was right about the blanket, but... “Rightly, I should pay half the cost of the blanket. Though you’re right; we do need one that fits.”

“Don’t see that. Most of the furnishings are yours. We don’t split the costs, and we won’t have to split the goods. Have any serious color preferences? Aversions?”