Little Black Dress

Little Black Dress by Neil McCall

At eleven o'clock Amanda collected the cocoa mugs and stacked them next
to the dishwasher. This was the signal for bedtime, so I switched off
the Santana CD and waited for her to precede me upstairs. As always, I
let her use the bathroom first - she didn't like doing her scrubbings
and inner clearances directly after me, whereas I didn't mind following
her - then watched her undress with indifference. Off came the baggy
old dress, the saggy old chain store knickers, then a flop into bed
followed by a grab for her latest historical novel. I'd seen enough; I
went to clean my teeth. For me it was a few pages of "Management Today"
and off with the bedside light; Amanda would read to the end of her
current chapter, insert the charity-store bookmark, switch off her own
light and turn her back on me. I used to stay up an hour or so and
browse the internet until a rash of adverts for penis enlargements,
horny Asian babes and invitations to launder hot Nigerian cash began to
flood our inbox, and Amanda blamed me for inciting that kind of thing,
so I decided to go to bed earlier to avoid argument, though of course
the spam rolled on unabated. But I couldn't help thinking about the
girl in the little black dress and our appointment the following day
?

For years I'd eaten lunch at my desk; a meat sandwich, a yoghurt, a
small chocolate biscuit and a piece of fruit neatly arranged in a
plastic container, to be washed down with machine-brewed tea whilst I
read the newspaper and made a cursory attempt at the cryptic crossword.
But now things are different; I'm out of the door on the stroke of
twelve each day and by ten past I'm enjoying a light but wholesome
lunch; maybe a pan-fried duck breast or tiger prawn salad followed by a
pavlova or fresh fruit with a glass of chilled Chablis. By twenty past
I'm lifting the hem of that little black dress to reveal the treasures
beneath and by twenty-five past we're in bed for twenty minutes of
fierce, stolen joy. Five minutes to wash and dress, ten minutes walk
back to the office. At one o'clock I'm at my desk as though nothing
untoward had taken place, except for the tell-tale odour of her perfume
and her sex, tinged with maybe a hint of fresh garlic and a gratuitous
grin. Of course, everyone in the office knew of my lunchtime nookie and
it became a standing joke; except that it also raised my status from
honest plodder to rakish, risk-taking jack-the-lad. My male colleagues
openly envied me; my female colleagues mostly toed the line and
expressed mild disapproval whilst surreptitiously eyeing me over.
Suddenly high-profile projects came my way, and I was no longer
expected to build my teams from the company's also-rans.

The alarm clock woke us at half-seven and Amanda reversed the previous
evening's performance; she swung out of bed, threw herself into
shapeless undies as though she were bagging coal and trudged off to the
bathroom. On with the narrow unflattering glasses which only German
women wear, then the faded old dress now relegated to the household
chores and down to make breakfast; I, by contrast, have to keep up
appearances so my shaving and dressing took much longer. I was also
determined to keep in shape for my little lunchtime trysts so I spurned
the fatty food whilst Amanda wolfed down bacon with the excuse that
housework burned up far more calories than sitting at a desk all day. I
kept my face straight and stared out of the window.

At half-eight I gathered my briefcase and made for the door; Amanda was
waiting for her perfunctory peck, which I dutifully gave her ? then I
crushed my lips against hers, pushed her up against the wall of the
hallway and ground my body against her.
"Mandy, oh, Mandy, how I want you, my sweet love," I breathed. She
turned and followed my gaze to where the little black dress hung on the
drying frame together with the best and laciest of her lingerie
collection, items which demanded the coolest wash but always gave me
the hots.
"Can't you even wait four little hours?" she chided. But her hand was
already making the decision for us. It looked like the mythical bus was
going to turn up late, and for once I was going to have to miss lunch
to make up my time.

Some day soon we will no doubt have children, and animals, a suburban
garden with a driveway and integral garage and sleepy, snatched
sessions of marital less-than-bliss. But for now the city centre flat
suits us just fine, for my darling, wanton wife and her little black
dress are never far away.