Bingo

bingo

I don’t have a problem with her going to bingo. I understand she gets a bit of cabin fever. It’s so much easier for me: out at work all day, camaraderie and banter with my mates, meeting people, about the town at lunchtime. She’s cooped up at home on her own all day, with never a soul to pass a word with. So it’s no surprise that she leaps at the chance of a night out when it’s offered.
There was nought on the telly, so I’ve come to bed early. Now I’m lying here in the dark, waiting for her to come home.
I hear her key in the door. She quietly slips in and sheds her shoes and coat in the hall. In a few seconds, she’s crept up the stairs and into our bedroom.
“Are you awake?” she whispers. I don’t know why but something stops me answering. I can’t explain why I want her to think I am asleep.
She takes off her clothes and leaves them on the chair, then slides into her side of our double bed. As she shuffles herself over onto her side, ready for sleep, she pulls the quilt at her shoulder. It rises like a hot-air balloon and gently settles again, wheezing a draught of warm air over my face. Carried on that wheeze is the distinctive, sweet, rich, sticky perfume of recent sex.

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