By Alisa Kwitney
Ardour. the type of tear-your-clothes off, scream-your-lungs-out, crash-into-the-furniture ardour that adjustments lives. it is what Delilah wishes. it really is what she craves. it is what she fantasizes approximately every time her disinterested husband's no longer round. ok, so it sometimes makes her past due for the varsity run and distracts her from the very fact there isn't any meals within the refrigerator, yet an tricky myth existence is a easy requirement for a fledgling cleaning soap opera author. in recent years, even though, the oddest issues were occurring in Delilah's actual existence. First, she discovers a few skeletons damn round in her husband's closet. Then, she learns that the insolently attractive plumber who is been solving her pipes and starring in her daydreams is admittedly an undercover FBI agent. And now the entire clues appear to element to the realization that she's the one individual in long island urban no longer wearing on a torrid affair. Which she intends to take care of. Or does she? simply because there is not anything extra harmful than performing on your mystery hope.
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Extra info for Does She or Doesn't She?
It conceals his receding hairline in a manner both attractive and sinister. " I rummage in the laundry basket, which is filled with clean clothing I have not put away yet. At least I think it's clean. " I stop rummaging. "I'm taking Sadie today? " My husband removes his hat and narrows his eyes. "I said I couldn't take her, Del. " But my long coat, as it turns out, is at the dry cleaners. Dressed in a pea coat that only covers me down to my pajama-clad knees, I head for the door. " Not. I slip it in while she's not looking.
A kind of shuffle-thump, shuffle-thump. Somebody is dragging something just outside this closet. My heart kicks into a faster rhythm. I feel the tension of the man's long muscles all along my lower body. He has a quality of trained alertness, of coiled energy held in check. Like a Labrador about to seize a bird, I think, and suddenly realize that this thought holds insight as to the identity of the man with his hand on my mouth. Labrador, retrieving, the ability to hold something large in your teeth without biting down… Something wet drips onto my hand and at first I think it is water from the broken pipe, but then I see that the liquid is dark, and draining from the man's shoulder.
Wouldn't that make a marvelous soap plot—all the women banding together and refusing to have sex with their husbands until the husbands agreed to… do something or other. Or maybe it should be the husbands! The husbands all refusing to make love to their wives, growing more and more obsessed with sex until something as innocuous as a laundry commercial—look how clean and white these panties are now—has them hot and sweaty. I am mulling over the plot potential of repressed sexuality and putting away one of Sadie's model horses when Jason appears in the doorway.