It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.
"Fuck that! This was definitely the worst of times," Rob thought as he stepped from the shower. He was in the foulest of moods. It started bad and quickly traveled down a slippery slope to piss poor, to outright crotchety. "And with the fucking day starting out with great promise," Rob thought.
"Damn them!" Rob said to no one in particular. "GOD DAMN THEM!" he corrected himself as he thought of his three so called golf friends. They had backed out of their game today "Just because of a small class 4 hurricane," that was supposed to track directly over them only to change paths at the last minute, leaving him with a beautiful day and with no one to play golf.
"May they rot in hell!" Rob cursed the local weatherman, NOAA, and National Weather Service (who got it wrong AGAIN) and God, Allah, Jehovah, Odin, or whoever makes the weather. How could they let a day of golf end as a day of yard work? "How?" He said. "Why Me?" he complained. "Screw them all and the horses they rode in on!" Rob mumbled as wrapped a towel about him.
Rob was bone tired and sore. Every muscle ached, his back, legs, feet, hands, arms ... even his toes hurt. "She owes me,” Rob said as he lowered himself to the bed.
The "She" was his wife Susan who, upon hearing the golf outing was cancelled, quickly made a "Short" honey-do list of things that needed to be completed at her preschool; some how that list never got any shorter. "She owes me BIG TIME!" he murmured as he drifted to sleep.
Rob was awakened by the sensuous sounds of Mark Knopfler, by movement on the bed, and soft warm hands massaging his shoulders. It was dark, except for the golden glow of candles. Her tried to roll over and glare at Susan (His mood had not gotten any better) but found that she had him pinned. She was straddling his bottom and he was too sore and tired to move her. He simply closed his eyes and enjoyed Susans gentle touch.
Susan worked his back ... Les hele novellen
