There's all kinds of dancing in life, here's one more.

SLOW DANCING

Belinda was folding laundry in the living room and thinking about cooking dinner when her husband Robert came home from work.

As soon as she heard his car pull into the driveway she began to sweat. She told her self that it was just another hot flash, but that didn’t account for the sudden tremors in her hands. She walked over to the open window and peered down to watch him get out of the car.

The driver’s door of their green Toyota Camry swung open and he stuck out his left leg. His black shoe reflected the summer sun; the knife-edge crease she’d ironed into his pant leg was still visible. Robert was very particular about his uniform, he said he represented his country at the Army recruitment office and had to look immaculate.

It had taken her a long time to figure out how to get that damn crease just right. But he wouldn’t let her touch his shoes, said the perfect shine was beyond her capabilities.

She wanted to see his face, what was he doing? It looked like he was stretched out onto the passenger seat reaching for something. Oh God, had she left her Starbucks coffee cup on the floor? Not only did Robert hate trash in the car, but he despised Starbucks as overrated and overpriced.

Belinda held her breath waiting, until she saw him sit up in the car, his black tie in his right hand. He scooped up his jacket from the seat and stepped out of the car. She let out her breath and gulped in several deep lungs full of air. His face was tight, but not scowling. She smoothed the T shirt she’d been clutching to her chest. She’d rumpled it so badly she might have to iron it. Setting it back in the laundry basket, she hurried into the kitchen to get his drink out of the refrigerator.

Then back in the living room, she set it down on a coaster on the end table next to his ugly green recliner. As she heard the front door open she snatched up her tennis shoes and the newspaper she’d been doing the cross word puzzle on and jammed everything into the hall closet. Robert disliked clutter.

He called out her name and she took a second to check her appearance in the long mirror on the closet door. She patted her hair, smoothed down the front of her shirt and pasted a small smile on her face. Then Belinda turned to walk back into the living room, taking slow and measured steps. She got just inside the door when he said her name again, said not yelled.

“How was your day, dear?”

“Fine,” he said. He settled into his chair, picked up his drink and took a long sip before he noticed the cat vomit under the couch that she had missed.

He scowled, she tensed. They were about to accelerate from slow dancing to their own personal violent tango.