Agnes thought about Cristina and Angelo, a week ago Saturday in their own kitchen. And then she thought about her own well-ordered, well-structured life. Children, meals, cooking, and cleaning. Dull as a priest's sermon.
"Take me here, take me now!" she ordered Norman, grabbing him by the crotch and kissing him savagely.
"Agnes, not in the kitchen!" he countered. "I've got my drafting supplies all over the place."
"They'll survive, now feel this," she said, taking his hand and placing it in her own crotch.
She would have none of it; her thirst for release from boredom overwhelmed them both and, before they knew it, they were both unclothed, she lay on the table, and Norman was thrusting into her. She felt the closeness of his body, the hair of his crotch on her behind, his hands on her breasts, his tongue in her mouth. They were finally connecting again, right there on the kitchen table, just as she had wanted. The conventional Norman had flown away with abandon and the man she had married a dozen years ago had finally returned -- the impulsive, charismatic lover who knew how to make her body tingle with joy. It was over in less than ten minutes, but Agnes felt a rush of joy that breathed through the last three years of boredom.
They lay on the floor by the chair, her leg crossed over his body, her head lying on his chest, while he played with the curls of her long, brown hair. The golden silence between them, as rays from the late afternoon's low sun filtered in through the kitchen window, only intensified the moment of closeness between them, a closeness for which they had both hungered, unknowingly and unremittingly.
Agnes looked out the window, her head on Norman's hairy chest.
"Oh, my God, Norman!" she said as she saw the head of their 7-year old son in the window. Harold turned and ran away as he saw his mother recognize him. "What ever are we going to do now?"
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