Wrong Number
She stepped outside, equipped, if needed, with the lame pretense of retrieving something from the car. She walked leisurely, stopping to admire a flower, pull at an imaginary weed, rub the shaggy yellow head of her sweet mutt Roscoe, the more faithful male in her life.
Through the bedroom window she could see him, casually dialing the phone. He glanced once in her direction, or maybe not at all.
Good, she thought. Standing parallel with the dogwood tree is the perfect cover.
He hung up, looked down at the crinkled slip of paper in the palm of his hand and dialed again.
He's calling that—woman, she concluded, resigning herself to the familiar pain and fear usurping her stomach.
She saw his mouth moving as he shook his head and replaced the receiver onto its cradle. Looking again into his hand, he made a quick fist, then re-assigned it to his pocket.
They entered the kitchen at the same time. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he sat at the table with a smile.
"Guess I'll stick around tonight, if that's okay. My brother wasn't home, must of forgot," he explained. He awkwardly fidgeted with something in his pocket, then laid his empty hand on hers.
Only then did she breathe again.
"Sure," she chirped, trying hard not to show her happiness, or uneasiness, or guilt.
"Want something to eat?" she busied herself in the pantry.
Deep breaths she told herself. You've won, don't be a wuss about it. Concentrate. Don't cry!
Standing straight, she blinked back the tears, swallowed the lump in her throat, lowered the neckline of her blouse.
He's mine tonight, she smiled as she fluffed her hair and reached for the ingredients of his favorite dinner, ashamed but grateful at what changing one digit could do.