“Sam?” Julia called to her husband. “Someone’s knocking at the door! Can’t you get it? I’m in the middle of finishing the stir-fry! If I stop, the veggies will be soggy! Sam!”
“I heard it! I heard it! Gimme a sec!” He was setting the table. “Anything thing else Maaaa—ster?”
“Aaah-yeah! Like: Take out the garbage—clean the garage—fix the deck—mow the lawn so we can find Mrs. Kellerman’s Shih Tzu. Do I really need to continue?”
“Pffft! Everybody’s a comedian!” he said putting the silverware down, heading for the door.
“Yeah—and I’m the cook, the maid, the gardener—oh why do I even bother?” she mumbled to herself, stirring the chicken and snow peas.
Sam peeked through the peephole. It was an older gentleman, dressed in a black suit and tie, briefcase in hand. “Aaaah—be right with ya—I’m getting dressed.” He sprinted to the kitchen.
“Whoa! Slow down partner!” Julia said holding up a hand. “You can’t be that hungry. Who was at the door? Was it Molly with the Girl Scout Cookies? They were supposed to be here last—“
“I think it’s the guy from the IRS!” he said cutting her off.
“The IRS? Oh-my-god! I told you! You never listen!”
“Everybody says they never check!”
“Really? A $68,000 charitable tax deduction? For The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster? Really Sam?”
“Maybe I shoulda’ said Scientology?” She just looked at him. “Okay—Jules, let’s just deal with this. I’ll invite him in for dinner. He’s an older guy. Maybe you can use your feminine charm on him. If you have any left.” She punched him in the arm. “Oooow!”
“You get us into the this mess and I’m supposed to clean it up? Like everything else?” she said pulling the wok off the burner.
“We’re in an open relationship—what’s the difference? We sleep around all the time.”
“Excuse me? What’s the difference?” she said aiming for his face. He ducked. “We sleep with people we like! People we know! Not because my husband’s a moron!”
“What choice do we have? We can’t afford the tax—they’ll levy our house! Come on snookums. Just this one time for papa bear?” He sidled up next to her and put his arm around her waist.
She eyed him through slanted lids and turned off the stove. “So help me Sam—You pull another stunt like—“
He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Julia answered the door and invited Mr. Zebar in for dinner. The conversation went well—as did the evening. After dinner, she flirted and made all the right moves. Mr. Zebar was clearly enjoying where it was headed.
“Mr. Zebar?” she said as she widened the neckline of her shirt to reveal milky cleavage. “There must be something we can do? To fix my silly husbands faux-pas?”
A slow and familiar smile formed on Mr. Zebar’s face. He started to speak, but before he could finish, Julia took his hand and led him to the bedroom. After a few minutes, she came back down, buttoning up her shirt.
“What happened? A minute man isn’t THAT quick!” Sam said. “Doesn’t he want to do it?”
“Oh, he does.” She smiled.
“So what gives? The condoms are in the nightstand!”
“You’re up papa bear. No difference. Remember?”
Dean Kutzler 