The Dinner Party

My wife Megan is one of the rare understanding types that are rarely spotted out of captivity. When I mentioned a few evenings ago that I’d invited my boss over for dinner this Saturday, she didn’t blink. She smiled and said, “Oh, okay.”
It only occurred to me that I should have asked her first, before inviting my boss over for dinner three days hence.
When I came home that evening with the news, Meg nodded and started to scheme what she’d make. A salad of simple greens with grated cheese and lemon vinaigrette for starters. Pasta primavera for dinner. Should we add chicken? Perhaps not. Bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar to dip it in. Red and white wine—although Meg couldn’t drink of course. Crème brûlée and coffee for dessert. The menu was set.
The next day, my boss informed me that her sister invited herself along. “More the merrier!” I replied, congenially. “Meg’s making pasta primavera.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes—you’re invited for dinner!” I said.
“Oh, I thought we were coming over to see the house and the Christmas lights,” Beth said. “But dinner is good too!”
Today I awoke sleepily after nine, aware that the house was messy. I turned over and peered at Meg. Her face was pressed firmly into the pillow, her hair spread out like seaweed floating in the ocean. I kissed her shoulder and woke her gently.
We forewent showers and dealt out tasks. I’d take the kitchen, where dishes had piled up and bits of mail were strewn on the table. She’d clean the bathrooms and the floors. I plugged in headphones to my iPhone and listened to the fifth part of The Pillars of Earth by Ken Bennett, a long tale about building a cathedral and the lives of those around a priory; I tamed the dishes and scrubbed the kitchen spotless.
The other day I found a box of old Christmas tree ornaments from my childhood. I’d left them on the kitchen island. Meg helped me hang them about the tree. My favorite are the bells, especially a red decorated bell I was given when I was seven or eight, and a shiny disco bell I was given the following year. I left my Jesus-on-a-cross made out of pipe cleaners in the box, although I did hang the angel ornaments and the olive wood Star of David that said Shalom. (Why on earth would there be a Jewish Christmas ornament? Maybe Jews sometimes erect Christmas trees, bowing to peer pressure?)
I worked on the forth bedroom, putting away boxes off the floor that haven’t moved in two years. Finally, I looked around and saw the home was spotless, except the floors, and thought of the vacuum that stood in the master bedroom. Meg walked in the room just then. “Maybe I’d have more energy to clean the floors after lunch.”
I smiled and agreed readily. My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten yet today, I realized.
Meg and I slipped out of our clothes and she flipped on the shower to warm up. I’ve never gotten entirely used to seeing Meg naked. I take in her familiar curves, loving how her hair cascades down her bare back. The big speckles and the little ones. The mole on her back. The curve of her short waist ending in the outward flare of her hips. The round buttocks propped up by her strong legs. I kiss her back and shoulders and run my fingers through her hair. When she turns around she takes my breath away.
Showers are equally enchanting. I remember the first one I had with her in a small single-room suite at a hotel just up the road from where we live. Our walk-in shower is bigger than that one. I kiss her tenderly as we exchange our spots under the hot water. She accidentally squirts conditioner in her hand instead of shampoo, and I volunteer to take it for my head. We talk about what to eat for lunch and settle on Silver Mine Subs.
I drive her in Rambo and play the Christmas Radio channel from Pandora. I like Christmas music this year. I like Christmas. I know it’s because I’m in love with someone who loves me back, and she’s pregnant with our child.
After lunch we walk over to Jared and buy Meg’s mother a pair of blue topaz earrings which are the same color as her eyes. The saleswoman who puts it in a box and a bag takes her time, and I think about the scene from Love Actually when Rowan Atkinson is selling Alan Rickman some jewelry and Rickman says, “Look, can we be quite quick?” and Atkinson says, “Certainly sir. Ready in the flashes of flashes!”
I mention this to musing to Meg and she said that she was thinking the same thing. She quoted another thing Atkinson said, “Oh this isn’t a bag, sir. This is SO much more than a bag.” We laughed and I said “Can we be quite quick?” again in the best Alan Rickman voice I could muster.
Next Meg and I shopped for her brother Ryan’s birthday present, which is a few days from now. We always make a point of celebrating it as separate from Christmas. Meg remembered Ryan liked model trains when he was a boy. We traveled to several places and found a big train set at Toys R Us, which could be set up to run around a Christmas tree. Never mind he’ll be 30 years old—he’ll love it.
As we drove home I leaned over to look at Meg. She looked back at me, and then took her hands and rubbed in circular motion on both sides of her belly. I emitted a high pitched sound and beamed. “I always know how to make you squeal,” Meg said, still rubbing her belly.
“You sure do,” I said. My mind drifted to thinking about the baby growing inside.
We arrived back at home. Meg cleaned the floors, the warm shiny wood glowing in the afternoon sunshine. I put on the Billie Holiday radio station with Pandora on the TV and puttered around the house cleaning anything I’d missed earlier.
When Beth and Kathie arrived, a fire crackled in our fireplace and the house glowed in lights and twinkling candles. Meg opened a bottle of red wine for them to drink, and Beth cooed over the dog. Penny jumped up on the couch and became her best friend as Beth petted her. We ate cheese on crackers and Kalamata olives while Meg started to cook.
“Barefoot!” Kathie exclaimed at Meg.
“And pregnant—in the kitchen,” Beth added.
“Get me dinner, woman!” I joked at Meg. She was dressed in a yellow summer dress with a yellow sash that ended in a bow, with a short white sweater over. Her brown hair was shoulder-length and glossy in the bright kitchen lights. She was indeed barefoot, but then, she usually is at home.
Dinner was a success. I was a little worried in the back of my mind how it would turn out. Meg loves dinner parties, but we’ve never had anyone but family over to our home before. But we spent the meal with easy conversation. I’ve known Beth for years and work with her closely. I’ve begun to think of her as more of a friend than someone who manages me, although there are days when she is a little of one over the other. In the back of my mind I also worry that I’ll miss her before too soon. She’s turning 60 next year, and will be retiring in three and a half years. I’m fairly confident that I’ll take her place as a manager when she goes, but I’d rather have her as a manager than see her go.
Meg took out the cups of crème brûlée from the fridge. I handed her the blowtorch. No, not the wimpy ones you find in the cooking section at Bed, Bath, & Beyond. A real blowtorch from Home Depot with a butane tank. She burned the sugar on top and I readied the coffee and creamer. As I tapped into the sugar crust, I grinned at my Meggy. “This looks great,” I murmured, really meaning the dancing lights in her eyes instead.
Beth and Kathie said their goodbyes soon thereafter. Beth and I exchanged hugs. Do I hug a manager? Today I did. They walked out to the car still remarking on the nice evening. The door shut.
“I need to take off this bra,” Meg declared uncomfortably. She headed towards the bedroom.
“I’ll help you,” I said. I made a beeline after her. She was already fumbling behind her back at the bow when I arrived in the bedroom.
“Here, let me get that for you.”
She stood still and I undid the yellow bow. Then I unhooked the dress and tugged on the zipper. The dress slid down her smooth body. I brushed it to the floor. Then the clasp for her pink bra. As it unhooked, the straps slid off her shoulders and her breasts slid out. I couldn’t resist sliding down her panties as well, and hugging her from behind.
She lay down on the bed and I kissed her growing belly. We made love quickly, then more slowly after I came, until she came too. I like how she makes a noise when she comes now. Her orgasms are more intense now that she’s pregnant, although they give her cramps afterwards too. Today she came suddenly, until her body was on fire with pleasure so much that she couldn’t close her legs after.
She put on pajamas and slid under the covers. “I’m sorry we’re not going to go see The Hobbit tonight,” she said apologetically.
I laughed. “That’s okay—I know the plot already.” I’d first read The Hobbit when I was ten or eleven years old. The movie will be good, I’m sure, but the book will always be special to me. And my wife, sleepy under the covers, is special to me too.
“Come snuggle me?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. My body is as hot as a space heater, which comes in handy for warming up cold sheets. I lay down and caressed her cheek with my fingers. Bentley got the same idea and curled up behind her knees. His black tail was bound in a tight curve around his body, keeping his paws warm.
“I love you,” I said. I meant every ounce of it. I leaned over her and kissed her cheek.
“Mmmm,” she replied, and melted into her pillow.