Tommy liked to take the long way home, said the scenery calmed his mind.
Birdie assumed all that stress could drive a man’s blood pressure to the top of a water tower. She hated the way that job turned his sky blue eyes into steel grey.
It also drove people apart. No, she didn’t mind his scenic route, especially if he veered off the road into strange women’s knickers.
Birdie glanced at the clock as she redressed, listening for the slamming door or the baby’s cry.
Some days, he was like a Saturday morning: everything new and sweet, the anticipation of the evening lightening their hearts. They could forget all about their cares.
But lately, Tommy was a Sunday afternoon: contented, lazy, dreading the end if the afternoon when he had to go back to his wife and Birdie went back to pretending with her husband. Back to pretending she wasn’t in love, that it wasn’t a sin.
Tommy was almost home, leaving Birdie alone with the baby.
She smoothed a curl off little Sammie’s forehead and wished his eyes weren’t so blue.