She slipped a goodbye note onto the dresser, then slid beneath the bed to watch what he’d do.
A little later her husband arrived, rattling around in the kitchen before entering the bedroom. She watched his shoes shuffle over to the dresser, saw him pick up the note, and heard the faint scratch of a pen as he scribbled a reply.
Then came a phone call.
“Yeah—she’s finally out of here,” he said. “About time, right? I’m on my way. Slip into that little French nightie… We’ll have some fun.”
He hung up, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door. The car engine faded down the street.
Furious and tearful, she crawled from under the bed, snatched the paper, and read the line he’d added:
“I can see your feet.
We’re out of bread—back in five.”
