I'm ready...

The shower cleansed her naked body of its long working day; its glass walls erotic to the touch, slicked with dripping aqua pura, the steam growing steadily, rising and pooling above her head. The droplets of water stinging in their anticipation – pouring, raining down on her – unable to satisfy themselves.

She scrubbed, she rubbed, she groomed and lubed, she soaped and bathed and at last, felt ready.

The bathroom was littered with its personal and private implements: the toothpaste squeezed up to its neck, lay pathetically, waiting for its next crushing embrace. Bottle tops; strewn carelessly across the dressing table, noted their ineffectiveness, as former partners distanced themselves; standing open, gaping necks, ready to pour, decant and surge - just as she bidded.

Unblemished, flawless, oiled: expectant – she held the doorknob, slightly moist in her hand – her breathing short – turned and pushed it open.

The chest held one open draw – a black stocking lingering on its lip. Soft echoing evening light stroked the old curved walls. The cupboard door, open just a crack, revealed the hem of a long, red, silken dress.

Softly she peeled back the cool, crisp, white John Lewis sheets that swathed the large, square bed – poised majestically, nonchalantly…invitingly, in the middle of the room.

The touch of clean, warm skin against laundered cotton was shivery.

She lay there; groomed, expectant, virginal and, near as damn it, perfect – so she thought.

“ Steve, ohhh Steve” She trilled.

NOTHING.

She edged deeper into the curves of the mattress – her toes delicately inching into the dark corners.

“Steve – Dahhhhhling…”

NOTHING.

“Steve, STE…” She hopped out of bed, ran into the bathroom; clutching her boobs as she scampered – her white bottom wobbled behind her. She found her mobile behind the massage oil.

"Freeeeezing …STEVE”- she yelled at the closed bedroom door.

NOTHING.

“Bloody Hell”. She snapped to herself tripping over a pair of dirty reeboks.

Jumping quickly back into the comforting confines of the white sheets, she pulled the topmost one up to her chin.

She jabbed the buttons:

“07473 – 261823”. As the ring tone began in her ear – her gaze rested on a pair of soiled Y-fronts hanging out of the laundry basket, a half-popped packet of nurofen nestled by the skirting against the wall.

“STe, STEVE – where the bloody hell?...I’m waiting…Where? Where do you bloody think?...I don’t care about the Chelsea – Barca game – just get your arse upstairs NOW.”

She jabbed the off button.

Then lay back on the bed – tense, angry.