Chapter 17: A Peignoir

Many Cones, Based On True Crime

Chapter 17 starts with Margie Grenk waiting for her husband to arrive home.
Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.
At midnight, Margie broke down and cried. It came all of a sudden, like a huge dam crumbling. Warning signs present, but not recognized.

From nine to ten thirty, she had soaked in a lilac scented bubble bath. Then called her sister for the fourth time to make sure everything was okay with the kids. Her sister told her not to call again.

First make-up, then start getting dressed. If you can call it getting dressed. Red, frilly, almost see through, silk bra. As she snapped it in place and scanned the reflection in the mirror, she thought, I should have bought a push-up bra. Goddamn men, why do they have to make such a big deal over stupid lumps of skin. Still, they are nice and pert.

Slowly slip on the crimson garter belt. Next, same color and material panties. As she scanned again, she half blushed at the obvious dark imprint of her black, matted pubic hair. Then, nude nylons and black high heels. Scan, once again. My God, I look like a hooker. She smiled at her reflection. But a goddamn world class hooker. Jay honey, you deserve this.

She was glad she didn’t tell him about her little masquerade. He would fall on his knees when he saw the goods. The grin turned to a frown, as she realized she’d have to wait idly in the house for another fifteen minutes, in her heels. Well, at least it will add definition to my legs.

Satisfied with the undergarments, she donned a sheer white, voile peignoir. Costume complete, she returned to the mirror one more time. She waved goodbye to herself, as she left to pine for her absent knight.

Margie took a chilled bottle of a mid range claret from the refrigerator, and opened it with a winged corkscrew. She poured herself a glass, and put the bottle in an ice bucket on the dining room table. ‘To breathe,” she laughed to herself.

When buying the wine, Margie had second thoughts about plying her husband, but decided he was getting it under control. One bottle of good wine between two people wasn’t really drinking, anyway. It was healthy.

Margie paired her wine with a Frank Sinatra album. She stood, took a sip of wine, and tried to figure out where a person, dressed or undressed as she was, would sit. Dining room chair or couch? Dining room chair was out, she decided. The prostitute’s union would picket my house, if they saw me in a dining room chair. That left the couch. She eased onto the soft cushions, careful not to spill the wine, and wondered if there was a lady-like way to rise when the time came.

The first glass was polished off by 11:15. She leaned forward, watched her pert breasts rub against her knees, and struggled to rise from the soft concave of the couch. Christ, that won’t do. I wonder if my tits hit my knees every time I get up. I’ll have to pay better attention next time I’m fully clothed.