Felix came home from work a little before 6pm. He would put his jacket up, his briefcase down, and slump into his favorite chair (a green loveseat, sunken from too many years of love) while flicking the telly on, waiting for the martini that Beatrice always brought him. When she did bring it, he would smile at her gratefully and she would smile back, kissing his cheek wetly. Sometimes, in his youthful vigor, this kiss would stimulate him, and he would take her into the kitchen and have her, right in the middle of making dinner. She loved it.

They would eat dinner. He would describe his day. The endless government bureaucracy of such a small town fascinated her; she couldn’t believe the tangled web he had to navigate every day. He found her childish curiosity both alluring and empowering. Here was someone who found his banal existence unfathomable and exotic. So they kept each other company, each complimented by the other’s appreciation.

Of course, while Beatrice enjoyed dinner and the conversation (and the occasional shag), she adored sleeping with him. Sometimes they would make love again, but every night he would wrap his strong arms around her, pull her against him, kiss her neck softly, and fall asleep. Feeling his strength, smelling his breath, being enveloped by his warmth — all these things convinced her that the world was right, life was good, and she would do anything for this man.

He would wake up quietly and head to work; she would sleep in, often spending the late morning still in a trance from his presence. Then she’d go do errands, come home, and prepare dinner. She would think about him. How could she please him tonight? She relished the long sessions of brainstorming.

Life was good. Life is great. Life will be fucking amazing. Yes!


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