There was lipstick on his collar. Fiery Red, she noted. Not one of her favourites. She was more a Wine Red lipstick kind of girl. She sniffed his shirt and took in the scent of his musky cologne. Mixed within, her sharp sense of smell caught a whiff of jasmine. Being allergic to perfumes, she knew it didn’t belong to her.
She stood holding the shirt over the washing machine, her eyes filling with tears. It would be easy to throw it in and pretend none of this was true. But it would be nicer if he was caught red-handed. After all, they had been married for twenty years. She decided to leave his shirt on the bed with the lipstick glaring at anyone who looked.
As she left the room, her teenage son yelled out, ‘Mum, is it okay if I borrow dad’s white shirt again? It makes me a hit with the girls.’
(c) Sanch V @ Sanch Writes (4 August 2016)
This has been written for Day 4 of the BarAThon Challenge at Blog-a-rhythm