He sat at home,
Unconcerned as the witching hour approached.
Yet his wife was not yet home,
Her sexual escapade for the evening taking longer than usual it seemed.
The husband, sat unconcerned though.
Reading as he sat
waiting for his wife
Of seventeen years to come home.
To the bed they shared and home they built.
The door opened,
The husband did not look up till it closed.
The lock turning,
Sealing them in for the night alone in their home.
She sat across from him,
Her eyes warm,
Tender, loving as she took in the profile of her husband of seventeen years,
though they had been together for twenty.
How is your book.
She asked him.
Her words were warm,
Helping to chase away the chill of an empty home.
He closed it, and set it aside,
It is good. But I don't think it's going to merit finishing, or discussing.
Shall we turn in then?
She asked him
Love in her eyes.
We should, it is my duty as your husband to be there, and here for you.
Then he took her hand,
Their journey to their bed was nothing.
The space and time in between the nights they shared was insignificant to it all.
For once the door to their bedroom was closed.
They were alone,
For they belonged to each other,
As husband and wife,
Partners in life,
Regardless of it all.
