My darling husband. He of little shame. In the years I’ve known him, he has been known to come home from work, shed his kit, and march proudly around the apartment naked as he prepares to take his shower. Oh, yes, there is preparation involved, here, people. But for reasons unfathomable to me, he must prepare naked.
He walks in the door, kit is immediately shed, folded neatly or thrown in the laundry basket, depending on cleanliness and/or smelliness of each clothing item (and all underwear is automatically dirty, but a work shirt may last another day). Being a man of discriminating apartment-cleanliness, he proceeds to wander around the house, tidying little things up. His theory is that he cannot get in the shower, become fresh and clean, only to come out and find something untidy which will irritate him enough that he must clean it up. Once he’s out of the shower, you see, he wants to be able to relax. No, he never gets irritated with me; we’d established quite early in the relationship that his anal housekeeping standards were quite impossible to meet by mere mortals, and he would take care of any of that type of thing himself. So he appreciates very much that I keep things neat and tidy, however, he will always see something I do not. Always. Hence his patrol around the apartment, nekkid, before stepping into the shower.
Now, in our old apartment, it wasn’t such a big deal. I am a fan of open windows, let the breeze in, air the place out! I like my living areas to smell fresh, I like to see the sky, let in the light. My husband has no problem with this. He just wanders around naked. As I was saying, in the old place, this wasn’t a problem, as our apartment was situated at the top of a hill, and we were surrounded by trees and shrubbery on all sides. No one could see in unless they were trying quite hard, and if they were, they’d be spotted.
In this apartment, however… we are surrounded by other apartments, a house, and an alley. Our front picture windows face the alley. We are on the ground floor.
Time and time again, I have warned him: You will be spotted. Someone will see you walking around naked. Naturally, a part of me wondered if this might be a sort of fetish for him, hoping to get caught. Maybe. However, Wee Mr. Stasaeon has never had much to say on the matter one way or the other, and has always, during these times, remained limp and comfortable. Mr. Stasaeon himself has always loudly proclaimed, “I don’t care. I have nothing to hide. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”
And so the routine begins, as usual, last night. He comes home, sheds his kit, and begins wandering around the apartment, tidying up. We’re having our regular chit-chat about how our day went, and just as he stands up at the end of the hallway, having picked up some microscopic speck of hair from the carpet, a look of utter shock descends upon his face, his eyes pop comically from his head, and his jaw hits the floor with the sound of iron clanging. I hear him utter one word, low and under his breath: “Whoa.” He makes a dash for the area behind my computer chair, where I’m sitting, and has his hands cupped over the Wee One and looking frightened.
“What’s the matter, honey?” I ask.
“Someone came home,” he said, voice shaking.
I turn and peer out the window. Sure enough, there is a car driving down our alley, suddenly driving a little slower. I can see them: two elderly ladies, and they are pointing. And laughing. And laughing. And laughing. I can hear them. My husband can hear them. I giggle.
“I told you one day you would be spotted!” I scold. He turns bright red and hurries down the hallway and into the bathroom.
“A lesser man would be embarrassed!” he hollers. By the volume and desperation in his voice, I can only assume he is trying to convince the mirror.
:smack:
