Her husband a cop, this limits Andrea’s sex life. The bastard works the night shift, the best time sound-wise to fuck, in her opinion. In the daytime, on the corner of Winston and Main, the garbage truck’s ungreased whine slams through the walls and traffic whizzes by the house, damned horns honking constantly at the slightest traffic violation.

Her husband a cop, he has good equipment, and Andrea hates having to wait for the day, for a bed showered in unrelenting sunlight, spotlighted by a flickering flourescent.

Some days Joe comes home pissed, loaded with bits and pieces of other people’s bad decisions and tragedies, and on those days the urge to hear her cries instead of her moans consumes him, so that at least three days a week she has to lock the door and forget about the backrub, the slow dance toward the bedroom.

Her husband a cop, he sometimes forgets things, like lunch, bills to be mailed, whatever. Andrea directs traffic, working it so his day never goes off schedule due to his miscalculations and mini-crises, because perps have to be handcuffed and scumbags blown away like clockwork.

Handcuffs. She looks his over, wonders if he's noticed that his load is lighter today, wonders if he will make a panicked call home, asking her to look on the coffee table, on the bedroom bureau. She unplugs the phone.

Clothes off, totally naked, she fastens one hand to the headboard and begins to masturbate with the other.

She wants to be ready for her husband, sure to burst through the door at any moment. She wants to be ready for her husband, her lover, not her husband, the cop.