Kissed Her Where She Said It Hurt

Grace was hidden under the quilt. Tom couldn't see any part of her. She might have been a bolster hiding a night-time escape from boarding school. Tom folded his quilt in two and squared it away so that the lines of the pillow echoed the straight edge on his side of the king-size. He towelled himself dry and went to the laundry-basket in the utility to dump the towel. The basket was full so he put a load in the Indesit. The towel would have to wait. Too bad.

Back upstairs, the bolster hadn't moved. Tom got dressed. Checked the alarm at Grace's side of the bed. The snooze button was down, He hadn't heard anything in the shower. The curtains were still drawn, they clashed with the bedding. He went downstairs, leaving the door ajar.

Grace's wine glass from the night before was on the granite beside the sink. Tom took a knife from the drawer to un-stick the glass from the surface, then put both in the dishwasher alongside his own whiskey glass and dessert spoon. The tiramisu had been perfect if he said so himself. Grace hadn't wanted any, of course. He would do an extra 10 minutes on the treadmill at lunchtime. “No harm, no foul” as they said across the pond.

Still no sound from upstairs. Perhaps she wouldn't stir until he'd gone. She'd be alright. Always was. Anyway, he'd kissed her, last night. Afterwards. Kissed her where she'd said it hurt.