Curfew

She rests a knee on the edge of the bed, fluffing the collar of her fleece robe, “I’m clean,” she smiles, sleepily.

“Are you?”

She frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean, Johnny Boy?” She bubbles with laughter, wisps of her damp hair sliding along her now bare shoulders. She holds the robe closed with a pinch.

He looks at her coldly, gripping the neck of a beer bottle, “you said you’d be home by midnight.”

“Did I?” Her hands sink into the comforter, leaning in, eyes dazzling, “what time is it now?”

“Don’t play with me,” he says, pushing back against the headboard, out of reach.

“It’s a serious question,” she hiccuped, “how much trouble am I in?” She inches forward. He glares at her. “It wasn’t my fault, really,” she whines, “I told the girls – ”

“Those girls don’t have husbands.”

She gasps, smirking, “Johnny, are you jealous?”

“Where were you?”

“With them,” she knelt between his ankles, “we danced (hiccup) drank (giggles) a lot.” She sways and bends, rubbing a cheek along his calve, “we kissed.”

He raised an eyebrow, “who?” She kisses his shin. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Her eyes glittered. Reaching towards him, “come here, I’ll tell you all about where I’ve been tonight.”

– B. Brown

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