that part done

from the top of the stairs
I could hear
the women talking, my wife's
friends, having an early
afternoon cheese and wine
party, after all it was Friday.
and me home from work early,
showering, resting finally
in bed, the door cracked open.
I listened as their voices
got louder, the pitch
higher, seagull against seagull
fighting for the same
spot of sand. how they skewered
their husbands, laughing as one
said she used an egg timer
to time their romantic interludes.
the others laughed, and talked
of the dirty clothes they would
wear, no make up,
how they would not shave their
legs, to keep their husbands
at bay. the migraines they would
have. meanwhile the children
played in the yard.
that part of love being done.