He probably wouldn't notice

It was morning….it didn’t matter ….the deed was done…if she took another swig of that wine from last night, she’d feel just a little bit more numb. Nobody had to know….what was the big deal anyway? Shit happens…Now, where in the world could her panties be? If she hadn’t gotten them from Victoria Secrets last Christmas she was in New York with you-know-who, she’d leave them behind. She knew that if she sneaked out now, he’d continue to snore his life away. He wouldn’t notice, would he?

Yeah, he probably wouldn’t notice …the deed was done…what was the big deal anyway…

She did not like the way he sprawled himself across the bed as if he had been sleeping alone. It said to her that he didn’t even care if his smelly un-pedicured foot was resting on her newly facialled forehead. Who raised him, anyway? Glancing across the immaculate bedroom filled with expensive but predictable objects, she scans for her 200 dollar pair of panties. You’d think that the orderly nature of the room would make them easier to spot. She was getting annoyed now. Her mother would harp on about how late she always is and seeing that she could always distinguish her yesterday clothes from her fresh-it’s-a brand-new-day-I’m ready-to-conquer-the-world outfits, she had to go home and change before the big family lunch. Her sister would be there, on time, with the perfect potato salad in hand and the adorable children and doting husband. She’d have to do a huge panel-beating job to get rid of the hangover.

He stirs, slightly. A few seconds pass ….and he’s back to snoring…She stares at him in a slight panic and notices the pair of panties neatly wedged between his clean shaven head and the silk cushioned pillow it rests on. Fully clad in the silk black number her well-adjusted older sister bought her for her last birthday, and the stilettos she borrowed from her best friend, she tip toes towards the bed, and slides the underwear out from under his head. He startles out of sleep….takes one look at her….what seems to be a “you’re leaving already?” look. For a second, she expects him to beg her to stay….He goes right back to sleep, this time spreading his long, athletic legs right across the bed but not before mumbling: “Lock the top latch. There’s some expensive shit in here!”

She gives him a zap sign, but he’s already back to slumber, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? Yes, as much as she knows he’s a prick, it hurts. She’s pretty. Not bad looking at all. She gets the guys to look, every single time. She’s not stupid either. Holding down a new managerial position at one of ABA’s biggest branches is no small fry. And she spends just enough time on the internet to hold down a conversation about “issues of the world”. Mnxim…his arrogance makes up for his pinky sized dick. Shame…money can’t buy you everything, she thinks.

She walks out of the fancy, inner-city apartment building, not forgetting to lock the top latch, of course, and into the hustle and bustle of taxi infested Johannesburg. She stumbles onto a hawker’s vegetables stall as the hot Sunday sun blinds her vision. Fuck, how she wishes she’d hadn’t left her Chanel sunglasses on her office desk! The judgmental stares and sniggers from older women coupled with the sexual hooting and tooting from the men lining the street, force her to take out her box of Stuyvees and light one! Let them fucken judge her now…She was planning to quit…but work’s so hard these days, and it’s the only way she can be ‘friendly’ with her subordinates …If she hadn’t written off the Tazz, she wouldn’t be subjected to this bullshit. What was she thinking? That he’d take her home…? Where the fuck are the taxis to Bramley anyway……?