Home again

Sometimes it’s the very simple things in life which are the most enjoyable. Take, for example, a fresh egg French omelette flipped over at home for me by my husband on a quiet Saturday. Last night I’d say I had a Mmmh… moment; and that definitely came with a capital M.

I’ve been staying away with work for what feels like forever. But now I’m back in the sack. So to speak.

“I wanted to give you a great welcome,” said Guido.

And boy did he ever give me one.

He was standing shirtless at the stove, and trust me Guido’s no sack of potatoes. He’s big. He’s hairy. He’s fit. From where I was standing he was cooking with gas in more ways than one. I raised a wine glass in a very appreciative salute.

The eggs bubbled.

I put an arm around his waist and randomly squeezed his jogging pants. You won’t be surprised to read my hand was drawn to somewhere around the crotch area.

“You know,” I said, “ I can detect you’re not wearing any underpants.”

I reluctantly loosened my grip. I took a slug of booze.

“Hey,” he said holding up his spatula defensively, I’m only frying an omelette here.”

All the more reason to be wearing underpants, I thought.

“It’s true, you know what they say, about absence making the heart grow fonder.”

I knew he meant it because when he flipped that omelette I could see it wasn’t the only thing rising to the occasion.

You know I’ve missed his company, the chat, the laughs, picking up his smelly socks. I’ve even missed that weird sound he makes in the middle of the night like his throat is a dripping tap.

“I suppose there were some up sides to staying in a hotel,” I said. “I didn’t have to make the bed, and, being alone it’s meant I’ve made it half way through Dr Zhivago. You’ve no idea how gripping Boris Pasternak can be under the sheets.”

“That all sounds pretty heavy and worryingly intellectual,” said Guido frowning.

I sliced my hot omelette with relish. At that exact second you have no idea how thankful I was not to be anywhere near post a revolutionary Russian.

“So, I’m intrigued, how d ‘you fill all that time here without me?” I asked.

There was a short but thoughtful silence.

“Hmm… working in the cafe and GAY porn,” said Guido blinking.

This was not sounding in any way pretty heavy or really intellectual. It was veering more to the Neanderthal and sordid but nevertheless still obviously fun under the sheets.

“Hang on,” he said, that’s not strictly true because sometimes I surfed the net for sticky rib recipes.”

There was another short silence.

”But yeah, mostly it was GAY porn.”

I had to admire his honesty. Sticky rib recipes are hard to find.

“I see,” I said, “well I’m back now. I doubt I’ll be progressing much further with turning the pages of Dr Zhivago but I’m not in any way promising you I can deliver an accurate snapshot of Dino Does Dallas.”

Just so you know, I’ve never actually done Dallas.

Much later, when we were both tucked up in bed and Guido was fast asleep, I lay there thinking just one thing.

There’s really no place like home.

38 thoughts on “Home again

  1. There really isn’t anyplace like it. We feel fortunate to enjoy being home (sometimes too much) and especially being home together. While our home is humble and flawed, it is also a reflection of who we are and what we care about: dog hair and toys, odors of cooked meals, furniture that’s been lounged on and discolored, carpets a bit warn, books half read, boxes full of past waste sizes, and memories that saturate every nook and cranny.

    Enjoy your return and reunion!


  2. I hear you – as a frequent (too frequent?) business traveler, there’s absolutely nothing like coming home and sleeping in your own bed. And when there’s someone gorgeous to welcome you there, all the better!


  3. Tell Guido to put on a shirt right this minute! Do you want him to end up plastered all over the front page of Fearsome’s blog? Also if he continues these semi-naked shenanigans in front of a hot stove he is liable to fry his sausage, and then where will you be?


  4. Oh my! I often suspect you are actually writing about my husband when you write about Guido; even the picture looks strangely familiar. Only, compared to Guido, mine has a husband with a worse sense of humour than that of Guido’s and mine is the one informing me about the fine literature. My main role is to support him by eating up dutifully (and happily) all he can offer and building endlessly more bookshelves.
    And we sure do know the feeling of getting back home!


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