Overnight

I was sitting off to the side, watching my wife slide a stocking up her leg, trying not to stare at her breasts, the way there were held by her lace bra. Just to distract myself, I asked the question I'd wanted to ask. "What...what time do you think you'll be home tomorrow?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure," she said.

"Did...did you ask him?"

She looked over at me. "It's not really the kind of thing a woman asks a man," she said. "It sounds... presumptuous. Like baby, my husband wants to know what time you're going to have me home by. He'll have me home when he has me home."

"By...by dinner?"

"Well, yea, I assume. Just don't count on breakfast or even lunch together. I assume he'll want to, you know, mess around in the morning. Maybe even twice."

"Twice? After...after the night?"

"Hon, men are different, you know that. Besides, wouldn't you rather I came home...you know...freshly taken?"