Furtive
She watched the figure on the bicycle negotiate the rocky path that led from the gate around to the side of the house. The path was wide enough for only one person, a small one at that. It had been covered in gravel some years ago, when Michael still cared to keep up the appearance of interested homeowner. Now, tufts of grass shot through the odd stone that remained, green shoots of defiance, making it clear that whatever was under the surface, rooted there, would always come through. She hardly needed reminding.
From her vantage point in the kitchen, she overlooked the side garden full of shockingly coloured perennials that bordered the path. Teetering slowly along, refusing to step off and walk the bicycle, Aidan kept having to adjust his riding posture to accommodate the climbing flowers. Riding with one elbow bent at an unfortunate angle, his hand methodically pushed away first the clematis, then the bougainvillea. She kept waiting for him to glance at the window, catch her being furtive. Soon, though, she was left glancing at his rear tire, willing herself not to have her eyes travel the length of the seatpost.
The path led to a shed, and this shed would have been the likely location to store the bicycle, if the man had any inkling about how fast gossip was likely to travel. Pleased with himself for avoiding the defoliation of the abundant flowering shrubs and climbing flowers that threatened to overwhelm the side of her house, Aidan merely staged the bicycle against the back porch. Running his hands through his curly brown hair, he finally glanced at the door.
As she washed her hands in the sink, she thought about pushing the door open, calling out to him. She wanted to gauge his reaction, assess whether or not her intuition was correct. Instead she turned to the stove to grab the tea towel with which to dry her hands. She adjusted her blouse, tugging at the bottom hem to smooth the fabric, deciding at the last minute to undo another button. With one eye on Aidan, still sitting on the stoop, she quietly made her way across the living room, onto the stairs, sneaking to the upstairs bedroom.
Sophia’s bedroom had very little to distinguish it from the bedrooms of other married couples living on the same street. A queen size bed, two dressers, an overstuffed chair flanked by piles of books and magazines, the hallmarks of people who used the bedroom for sleeping, reading, and precious little else. Settling herself seductively in the mist of the throw pillows, she fished around near the headboard, drawing the binoculars to her eyes just in time to catch Aidan and Kate making out like adolescents.
