Lynne had slipped in early to cook breakfast. She did this every week or so. When I pictured her husband making breakfast for their two children at the same time I pulled the sheet higher over my head.As I heard her singing lightly to herself I imagined her moving ’round the kitchen to pour orange juice, or spoon coffee into cups. That lovely swaying walk of hers that made me think of Hawaiian dancers in grass skirts. After cutting bread she’d push her long hair back away from her face, or maybe move it with a flick of her head.I knew if I called down to her to forget breakfast she’d come upstairs, peeling off her T-shirt as she came, exposing those firm, perfectly shaped breasts. She’d slip down the tiny skirt she wore. I’d admire those long golden legs, then pull back the sheet so she could slide into bed beside me.That ache of longing twisted me up inside. All I had to do was take a breath, then say her name out loud. Lynne.Instead I lay there not moving as the ritual continued.
