Margot

         There’s something about a muscular man in white pants that’s been turning my gears lately. Maybe it’s this muscular man, in particular. Maybe it’s the lack of attention I’m getting from my husband. Either way, this man and his tanned, sculpted arms carrying a caddy of milk to my doorstep, manages to make sexy of the unsexy. He spotted me creeping through the curtains last week and returned a wink and a smile as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. I’m nervous, but I think it’s time to introduce myself: a bored housewife and mother who needs some excitement. Don’t say that. Definitely, don’t say that. Just Margot, will do.

          The hot summer air blasts my face as I open the door in my sheer dressing gown with a satin slip underneath, imagining and hoping I look like a wind-blown dream. He smiles and wipes the sweat from his brow as he approaches the doorway, “Well, hello Miss! Beautiful morning.” Yes. It. Is. I take the caddy of milk from him. Awkwardly pausing, obviously with something to say, I finally offer for him to come in for a glass of water. A little surprised by my audacity, he looks over his shoulder to see if anyone is around to witness the scandal and eventually accepts.

          I feel the heat radiating off him as he brushes by me, entering the hallway. He’s hot. My heartbeat increases as I close the door behind him. I’ve never done this before; been alone with another man in the house, while my husband is away. Shit. Am I ready for what comes next? What is coming next? What do I do now? Do I come on to this man? Do I wait for him to come on to me? What if he doesn’t even find me attractive? Shit, he’s looking at me. In this stupid fucking feather-sleeved robe. This is embarrassing. The water. He’s here for water. Lead the way, you dumb bitch.  

          I make my way toward the kitchen, brushing past him, when I feel his hand grip my forearm. Chills run up my spine. I haven’t felt the warmth of a man’s hand in quite some time. He gently grabs the milk from my hand and sets it on the entryway table. I turn toward him, my line-of-sight landing on his muscular chest in that fitted, white, short-sleeve button down. Am I in a fucking romance novel? Arms like that should be illegal. I can feel him looking down at me, his lips hoovering just over my forehead. My heart is pounding. He lifts my chin.

          “What’s a woman like you doing, dressed like that, offering a man like me in for a glass of water while your husband’s not home,” he asks softly as his lips brush mine. Not what I was expecting. At all. Immediately discomforted by the tone and question, I pull away stunned and embarrassed. He grips me by the arms, pulling me in aggressively, he growls, “Answer me.”

          Shock consumes me. Paused in silence, I’m speechless. My senses heighten. Fear and regret flood my system as I realize this was a bad fucking idea. And now that I have a closer look at his face, he’s not even that attractive. It’s got to be the whole uniform thing. That’s disappointing. And this stupid fucking hat? If I weren’t in pain, staring at an angry man’s face, I’d laugh. I can feel his rage growing the longer I make him wait for an answer. “I’m stupid and terrible and pathetic and desperate,” flies out of my mouth like word vomit. It’s the honest truth, and now I seem to have shocked him. I feel his grip loosen, but not for long.

          Violence. He throws me. I collide with the floor. Completely disoriented, I feel him pounce on top of me. He’s livid. Sitting on top of me, his hands make their way to my neck. I can’t breathe. Of course, those beautiful, strong arms would be the death of me. Fighting his grip is impossible. I hate his face. What was I thinking? Sweat drips off his nose and lands in my mouth. Fucking disgusting. I can’t let this dirty asshole do whatever it is that he’s going to do in my clean house whenever he’s done with me. The outlet next to my head has a plug in it. I reach out and pull.

          The crash of a hefty, handcrafted lamp made of clay from Africa startles me as I’m met with the drop of dead weight. Shit, that was the lamp my mother-in- law got us as a wedding gift. Heavy little sucker. It was expensive. She made sure I knew that. She’s going to be pissed. At least I can breathe again, kind of. Got to get this sweaty psycho off me. I carefully slither out from underneath him, trying not to wake the baby. Don’t want a redo. I run to the kitchen and back, grabbing a knife, just in case. He’s not moved. So far, so good. That’s a pretty decent sign. Not ideal, but I’ll take it. I give him a kick. Nothing. Gripping the knife, ready to jab, I check his pulse. Also, nothing. I think he’s dead.

          I killed the milkman. Well, technically the handcrafted African clay lamp killed the milkman. Depends on how you look at it. Lovely. Now I get to spend the day cleaning my own mess. Housewife life: it’s a full-time job.  Shit, I need to get that milk in the fridge.