The Love Affair
Chapter 3
Jose was her perfect match. His cream-colored skin never changed and his dark eyes always reflected her deep inner self. What she saw in those deep gorgeous mirrors was beautiful. She giggled as she thought about his weight. Sometimes he was pretty hefty, and sometimes he was slim. But he was always the most wonderful thing she saw, especially on Super Bowl Sunday each year.
She straightened the front of her maroon chiffon dress and adjusted the sleeves around the upper part of her arms. Spraying a dab of cologne, she checked to make sure her teeth weren’t wearing her lipstick. Yes, age showed in her face, but she could live with her maturity. Bryan never seemed to notice; Jose would love it.
She flounced down the stairs and saw her beefy husband looking over the nest she had built for him.
“What kinda’ sammiches?”
“Bologna. I know what you like.”
“Sure do. Thanks, babe.” He grabbed one bread triangle and bit half of it, chewing with a glop of mustard on his chin. Snagging a bottle from the cooler next to him, he plopped down and wielded the remote like a scepter.
“’at’s a good sammich,” he said around his chewing. A soggy piece of bread flew out of his mouth and hit her shoulder.
“Thanks,” she answered while brushing the goop away. A shadow of annoyance crossed her face, then left.
He swallowed. “Sorry,” he said without looking at her. He pointed the remote at the television, a king commanding his loyal subjects.
Christine looked at the clock on the wall above the TV, checked the mustard spot on her shoulder one more time, then settled herself on the opposite corner of the sofa closest to the front door. She slid the unopened wine bottle on the coffee table a little to the left, then back to the center between the two glasses in front of her. She couldn’t help fidgeting; Jose would arrive a couple of minutes after the game started.
The picture on the television screen was split into three parts with a sportscaster in the middle pane. On either side of him each team’s head coach yelled about what good players they had and how their team would mop up the field with the other. The announcer in the middle gave the illusion of refereeing the coaches, but anyone could tell he was actually egging them on.
“Kick off in exactly two minutes, “ Bryan said to Christine. “TIME TO WRAP THIS CRAP UP. GET OFF THE SCREEN.” He yelled at the TV.
She smiled and looked down. That meant about five minutes until Jose’s arrival. She patted her hair one more time and curled her feet under her dress. Looking over at her husband she saw he was already lost to her.
A couple of commercials whizzed by, then the two quarterbacks stood on the 50-yard line with the referee. The coin toss. She always thought it strange that a coin toss determined the fate of an event as important as the Super Bowl, nothing but chance—not a whit of skill involved. She watched as the memento coin fell to the turf in front of the ref. He picked it up, pointed to Bryan’s team and ran from the field.
“HOT DAMN!” Bryan yelled from his side of the couch. “MY BOYS GET TO RECEIVE!”
Over her husband and the cheering crowds on the television, Christine thought she heard a noise on the porch. Launching from the sofa she walked with controlled steps to the curtain covering the large window next to the front door. She peeked between the lengths of fabric but did not see anyone with a hand raised to knock. Instead of going back to the couch, she turned and leaned on the large oak door.
The player ran down the middle of the field and kicked the ball toward the other goal, right into the arms of Bryan’s favorite player, who immediately ran into a solid wall of opposing jerseys.
“GO GO GO GO GO,” he yelled at the screen.
A quiet little tapping sounded on the door and Christine lifted her head, her eyes shining as bright as stars with anticipation.
