Under The Bed

Under The Bed

[The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.]

Shhhh ...

I'm hiding under the bed.

Why, you ask?

Well, you see, it's not completely my bed. Oh sure, I was in the bed, not more than a few minutes ago, and to be honest, I was just about to fall asleep, when I got pushed off the bed and told, "Quick, hide under the bed. My husband's home early."

What's that all about? It seemed like a very rude thing to do. I mean, who shoves someone off a bed and tells him to hide under the bed? Especially at my age? I was bloody well surprised that I even fit under the bed. But here I am, hiding here as silent as a louse, or is the phrase "as silent as a mouse"? Well, who knows? It's definitely a lousey thing to do to me.

I must say it's a bit creepy under this bed. A couple of inches to the right of my ear is a pair of underwear that appears to have been discarded and left here some time ago. Not my underwear, I assure you. These are a kind of faded purple and twisted into something of a nasty knot. No, not mine, I swear. I don't own any purple underwear, unless you count the maroon pair of Hanes that snuck in with the whites and got a little bleached out in the wash. I almost never wear that maroon-bleached-to-purple pair anymore, except when they are the last pair in the drawer, and even then I shudder when I pull them on. There's something weird about encasing your "junk" in anything vaguely the colour of purple.

It's a mystery to me how anyone could ever think, "Well, purple is sexy, or purple is romantic." Purple is neither sexy nor romantic when its holding up the boys. It smacks of an geriatric condition in an area where you want to be full of vim and vigour. Red, sports car red is a good colour. Smells of horse power. And black. Black is the colour of black magic, sexual taboo, and horrendously long male-members, you know, the kind every woman re-members.

I have no idea where my underwear are. I think I wore my tighty-whiteys today. I don't see them anywhere. My shirt and pants are down by my feet, and my shoes and socks appear to have been tossed under here right beside them. But, my underwear? No idea. I suspect they are turned into the covers somewhere, and I guess that might be embarrassing at some point, unless I somehow manage to retrieve them.

Wait. The dog. Oh great, that little Shitsu has them in his flat, smelly mouth. I can see him by the bathroom door, flipping them from side to side, like he just discovered some form of fresh roadkill. And he's making these awful moaning sounds. "Mmmmph-mmmph, mmmmph-mmmph." Oh, that sounds far too familiar — far, far too familiar. Damn, I told the old lady not to buy a dog.

Maybe if I call him quietly, he will bring them to me.

"Psssst, psssst," I hiss in a whisper.

Nothing.

In fact, now he appears to be humping my underwear. Oh that little piece of Shitsu. He's thrusting at warp speed. Arrggghh, now he's stopped and is resting right on top of them, panting and drooling slop everywhere, his tongue hanging out and licking at the air. At any second, he'll probably light up a smoke and say something stupid, like, "How was that for you, my little Fruit Of The Loom?"

Well, so much for that pair of underwear. I am not inclined to swap DNA with a Shitsu, no matter what the circumstances. Now, I just wish I had actually worn my maroon-bleached-to-purple Hanes after all. For all I would care, that mutt could have humped them all the way back to maroon.

Aha! I can hear voices in the other room. So far, no one is screaming. I'll take that as a good sign. If some kind of screaming starts, then I am definitely coming out from under this bed and dealing with this matter mano-a-mano. I may be at a disadvantage because I'll be naked, but who knows, my nakedness may add some comic relief to the whole situation, before we decide who is going to punch whom in the eye.

None of this is my fault, you understand. I swear that I was going to spend a quiet afternoon watching the baseball game on television, but the game got rained out, so somehow, I must have become bored or edgy or something, and presto, I wandered into my current dilemma.

Voices again. A little bit louder. No, not louder, more like crooning loud. Oh God, feet. Two pairs of feet. Feet shuffling and twisting around one another. Yep, there go his shoes, and with a thump right above me, the feet are gone. Oh dear, this is no good. The box spring is starting to shift and creak this way and that. Are you kidding me? Seriously, are you kidding me? Did she forget that I am under the bed?

A hand. Her hand, dangling down from the mattress. What's she doing? No, oh no, no, no. She's giving me the thumbs-up sign. Really? Really? She leaves me under here while she's going to have sex? Really?

Ack! Knees. Her knees on the carpet between his lumpy feet, his turned-up toes still tucked into the most hideous blue-striped, athletic socks I've seen in years. She's kneeling at the side of the bed, and I'm guessing she's not saying a quick prayer to Jesus. Even if she were, that prayer wouldn't have a chance of being heard over his ridiculous cooing and whimpering. Such drama. He's really putting on the A-game. C'mon, buddy, I've been where you are, and to be honest, it's good, sure, but it's not that good.

What's that? Dirty talk? Dirty, dirty talk? Hey, I never get the dirty talk. In fact, when I tried to use a little dirty talk as encouragement one time, well, all I got was a hand over my mouth and a pretty insistent, "Don't!"

Enough. I've had enough. C'mon you two, let's get this over with. All the slurping and smacking sounds are making me hungry, and I want dinner, sooner rather than later.

Wait. There. Was that a moan or a sigh? No, it was a groan, and I don't mean the kind you make when the dentist says that you're going to need a root canal. No, that was the groan of groans, sort of like when you get a sliver out or have an epiphany of some sort. He's done. I'm sure of it. He's done, and I can tell by the rustling around up there that this little scenario has reached its climax. Now, get him out the door, so that I can get out of here.

There. Feet. Feet walking away. Finally.

Huh? What's that? A letter? He's dropped a letter and somehow managed to kick it under the bed. No, it's not a letter. It's a bill from Mastercard. What the ... ?

Hey wait. Wait just a second here. That freakin' mailman!

This bill isn't addressed to her. It's addressed to me ...

Smartass ... when the pizza guy was here, he never slipped a slice of double cheese with pepperoni to me under the bed.