…hot wired #1

They had met at Mercer University in Macon, Georgia. Now 24 years later, drifting apart, their marriage sliding in mediocrity. The love was there but the touch was gone. Six months since they had made love. Sharon,48, and Sean Parker, 52 years old with two grown kids that have left the nest. He a Baton Rouge Police Detective. Sean, 6’2, 180 lbs. streaks of gray in his hair, athletically built from working out at the spa. She a High School Principle and taking Yoga classes with her next door neighbor, Julie Baker, close friend and confidant. Waiting for Sean to come home and continue their open marriage conversation from last night.

5:30 pm Monday Evening

At a fork in the road of their marriage and once in awhile sex, if they didn’t take the fork, their marriage would be doomed. They had to make adjustments. The rain was falling heavy and washing the asphalt at #409 Sunny Side Dr. Sharon stood at the kitchen window as the thunder rumbled…thinking, listening to the radio, turned down low “her face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale.” Waiting for Sean to come home from the Cop Shop. Her coffee untouched. Feeling punked out, then hearing the front door and the familiar footsteps down the hallway, Then he pecking her on the cheek…always the right cheek first.

“Hi babe!” removing his SIG Sauer P320 kit and placing it in a safe, built-in to the pantry. Her reply…”Hi Sean”, barely audible as she continued staring out the kitchen window, watching the rain pelt the backyard patio. Sean poured himself a cup of coffee, He leaned against the counter, watching Sharon’s reflection in the window, the way her shoulders tensed just slightly, the way she’d been biting the inside of her cheek since college when she was nervous. ”You’re still thinking about last night,” he said, not a question.

Sharon turned from the window, rainwater streaking the glass behind her like blurred fingerprints. “Yeah,” she admitted, her voice barely above the sound of the storm. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” She crossed her arms, not defensively, but as if holding herself together. “We’ve been married half our lives, Sean. And now we’re talking about…this. But isn’t it better than the alternative? The silence. The pretending.” He met her gaze. “The lying to ourselves.” Then she blurted it out. “I want to fuck, Julie and Dave Baker as you watch…and then become an orgasm buffet.”

Sean set his coffee down with a soft thud. The scent of rain and wet pavement seeped through the cracks in the old window frames, mixing with the bitter aroma of untouched coffee. “You really mean that?” he asked, his detective’s voice steady despite the sudden heat crawling up his neck. Sharon didn’t flinch. “I’ve imagined it for years,” she said. “The way Julie moves in yoga class—all that controlled strength. The way Dave looks at her when he thinks no one’s watching.” Her fingers twitched at her sides. “And I’ve seen how you look at her too.”

“Have you fucked anyone outside our marriage, Sharon?”

Sean’s question hung in the air like the smell of ozone after lightning, sharp, unavoidable. Sharon’s fingers stilled against the countertop. The rain outside slowed to a murmur, as if the storm itself was holding its breath. “No,” she said finally, her voice steady. “But I’ve wanted to. That’s why we’re having this conversation.” She uncrossed her arms, letting her hands rest palms-up on the kitchen island between them, an offering.

We need to agree of rules or peramerters,” Sean said, his voice low and measured, the way he spoke during interrogations when the truth was slippery. Sharon nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle, but the air inside felt charged, thick with unspoken possibilities. “Rule one,” she said, “no secrets. If something happens, we tell each other. No pretending it didn’t.”

“Rule two,” he countered, “we don’t bring strangers into our house, this house is ours.” Agreed. Rule three,” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, “we don’t stop being us. Date nights, anniversaries, the way you scratch my back when we watch TV. That stays.” “Rule four,” he said, watching Sharon’s face for a flicker of hesitation. “No sleepovers. We come home to each other. Always.” The words tasted strange, like a recipe they’d never tried before. Sharon nodded, but her eyes drifted to the window where Julie’s house stood just beyond the rain-streaked glass. The unspoken her lingered between them. “Rule five,” she said, “No guessing games.”

”We’re doing this,” she confirmed, her voice steadier now. ”But not because we don’t love each other.” She reached for his hand, her palm warm against his. ”Because we do. Enough to try something stupid to save something good…and by the way. We have been invited to a clothing is optional party.”

Sean’s fingers tightened around Sharon’s, his grip firm but not crushing. ”A clothing-optional party,” he repeated, his voice dry. ”That’s subtle.” The corner of Sharon’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering across her lips. ”Julie mentioned it this morning,” she admitted. ”Dave’s idea, apparently. He’s turning forty in September.”

The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving behind a damp hush that settled over the kitchen. Sean exhaled, long and slow, as if releasing something he’d been holding onto for years. ”So we’re really doing this,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. Sharon squeezed his hand in response, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in a rhythm that matched the steady drip of water from the gutters outside. ”We are,” she said. ”But not tonight.”