Wine Part 1 of 2

A #SaturdayScenes , continuing from my #RiverNovel . I'm wondering what you're thinking as you read this part.
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He arrives late, smelling of fresh concrete and sawdust. I greet him with a hug, and he tenses up. I soften my embrace, embarrassed by how desperate I must seem for more passion. He pats me on the back, and continues his progress on his path to his destination. I'm miffed. He was so incredibly affectionate last night, and now he's like it never happened.

He flounces on the sofa, and I cringe as I expect to hear the crack of a slat or leg snapping. He swings his workboots up onto the magazines on the coffee table. He just walked in and crashed on my sofa like he belongs here. What's going on?

We fell asleep last night all smiles and murmurs and fingertip caresses. What did I do this morning? I watched him wake up. I offered for him to take the first shower so he could get out to work early, but he lingered and seemed to enjoy staying in my bed until I left. Everything was fine, so I thought. Did I do something wrong? Was I supposed to make him bacon and eggs? Fat chance. Was I supposed to prod him out of bed? Seduce him for a quickie? 
Or did something go wrong at work?

I sit on the other end of the sofa, lowering myself in an awkward way to reduce the chances of the sofa collapsing. "How did work go today?"

"Fine." Pause. "Why?" His eyes burn through me, What did I do? What should I have done? Did I forget to meet him somewhere after work?

"You seem to be, I don't know, tired maybe."

"Yeah." His body is tense. If he's so miserable, then why is he here? What did I do wrong? What am I supposed to do?

"Did you have a good day?"

"Enough with my day already! What are you getting at?"

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"What do you think my day was like?"

"I don't know." I retreat into the comfort of my corner of the sofa.

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't talk about things you don't know about."

What? I can't ask about his day? I stifle a frustrated laugh. When his gaze turns to the wall, I study his face. Round forehead. Deep-set eyes. Plump nose. Full lips. Bristly chin. Prominent Adam's apple.

Who is this person? What does he want? He wants me? Or doesn't he? What's going on in his head?

He gets what he wants, that's for sure. He has his dream job, lives in his favorite place in the universe, drives his favorite vehicle... He just thinks up something, and Poof! it's his.

But then why didn't he keep the intelligent Catholic virgin of his dreams? How did he wind up wanting a dumb atheist slut like me? What would she do, in my shoes? How would she comfort him? 

Prayer. She would pray for him.

I inconspicuously put my palms together, though my fingertips aren't together as they should be, and ask whatever god that he fabricated in his head: move him toward me, show me how to help him, how to comfort him and make him happy. How can I make him smile? A glass of wine? I offer him one, and he shrugs, then sighs, and then nods.
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You can find links to all of the scenes that I've posted by going to http://WeaverGrace.com

Photo credits:
Ukraine dnepr at krementchug by Lutz Fischer-Lamprecht. Licensed by Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0 Unported. Modified by Grace Buchanan.
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