So Jesse comes home from work last night looking all Zac Efron in a good way. He’s lean, and tan, and has just the right amount of tussle in his hair. Mmm-hmm. He takes off his work shirt, revealing a slightly-too-small, snug fitting white t-shirt that highlights his pecs. The short sleeves strain against his biceps.
I know. This is starting to read like the beginning of an erotic novel. Sadly, that’s as close to steamy as this story gets, unless you count the broccoli he had brought home at my request. (Stopping at the grocery store for last minute ingredients – that’s SEXY!)
He had had a bad day at the office. I tried to look sympathetic, and nod in all the right places, but his hotness was a bit distracting. Maybe I just like vulnerable men.
Jesse has a very particular schedule. I serve dinner at 7pm sharp. The kids are bathed and in bed by 8pm sharp. Jesse is in the basement running to the soothing lyrical stylings of Eminem blasting loud enough to set off the neighbors car alarm by 8:05pm. He gets very antsy if his schedule is in any way disturbed.
I was making brown rice, “chicken” and broccoli. At some point during the day I must have fucked up the space-time continuum because the damn rice was taking for-EVER.
You know what? I just realized that there really is no point to this story. It’s not really even a “story” at all, is it?
My husband is hot. We didn’t have sex. That is all.