Violet Saturday
Lance opened his dark, inquisitive eyes and stared hard into the slowly rotating ceiling fan. The electronic calendar on the nightstand to his left proudly announced it was Monday again. The mid-forties attorney blinked and stretched his out of shape muscles until they hurt. Five seconds later, he gasped for air while touching his throbbing forehead. Some headaches are like little nagging impressions under the skin; his was a gigantic earthquake, one that could not be measured by any known scale.
“Holy shit!” He muttered. He had never felt anything so intense, not even when he was just another crazy student, spending his family’s college money on unidentified drugs and illegal raves. The whole world was spinning, senseless vertigo completely out of control. At great cost, he managed to focus his thoughts, erratic eye movements slowing down to acceptable levels. He exhaled all tension leftovers in a single breath and sat on the bed.
Then, he looked at his feet and everything spun again. The violet-striped socks he had on said: Saturday.
“Huh? That can’t be right.”
Earnest defender of Law, Order, and unchangeable habits, Lance always wore a different pair of socks every day. Color-coded, they followed the classic rainbow pattern from Red Sunday to Violet Saturday. In twenty years of synchronized fashion, not once had he made a mistake, exchange one color for another. Something was not right.
He was lost in meditation when his wife, Wanda, entered the bedroom, carrying a succulent tray. A former Aussie model, she was the only person he knew that sported a vigorous mane of natural platinum blonde hair. The color looked particularly beautiful against the black satin robe she had on. As lovely as anyone can be, she adored gardening and cooking. Breakfasts in bed were one of her specialties.
“Good morning.” She chirped. “I have your favorite right here. Eat it while it is warm.”
Lance offered no reply, just an uninterested glance. Sensing his unease, Wanda laid down the tray at the foot of the bed and caressed his right cheek.
“Okay, teddy bear, what is wrong?”
“Did something unusual happen this weekend?” He queried, sunken eyes on the floor.
“Why do you ask?”
He pointed at his feet. “I am still wearing my Saturday socks.”
“So?”
“I never do that.”
“There is no shame in forgetting to change one’s socks, you know?”
“You still have not answered my question. Did something happen?”
“Only your promotion party, hun. It was a blast.”
“Right...” He sighed. “That was this Saturday.”
“You are talking like you do not remember it happening.”
“I do... vaguely.”
“Well, not surprising. You did drink too much.”
“I did?” He shook his head, searing pain coming back with a vengeance. “That does not sound like me.”
“Hey, you were excited beyond compare! That promotion was a dream come true, so you overdid it a little. Now eat!”
“Are you telling me I spent all of yesterday nursing a hangover?”
“Yep, and I nursed you. You say the funniest things when you are not aware of what you are doing.” She laughed out loud.
“What things?”
Wanda pouted. “I will tell you after you had your breakfast.”
“I need to take a shower.”
“Do it after. Now eat! Nurse’s orders.”
“You are not wearing your latex uniform, dear.”
“And I will never do it again unless you do what I say right now, understood?”
“Yes.” He nodded and reached for the tray. Brioche French toasts with bacon and banana were sweeter than ambrosia and the fresh pineapple juice gave the meal a nice tangy contrast. Lance devoured it in a heartbeat and sighed with relief as the previous discomfort slowly began to subside.
“Off you go then.” Wanda slapped his ass. “Save some hot water for me.”
“You are coming in, too?”
“What do you think?” She undid the top half of her robe, giving him a nice angle of her ripe cleavage. “Meet you there in a minute.”
“Yes, nurse!” He sauntered to the bathroom. The mismatched socks were the first thing to go. He stepped into the shower and woke his cock with a vigorous pull. The fleshy appendix was quick to answer the call. Hangover or not, it never let him down.
Had he waited a few more seconds before turning on the water, he would have heard his wife on the phone, whispering:
“Hi, sis. It is me. Yeah, the amnesia trigger worked like a charm, he does not remember anything that happened, yesterday. He is confused, of course, but nothing I can’t handle. We are still up for next week, right? Good. I am dying to unleash my sadistic urges again. Just remind me to change his socks when we are done to make things go even smoother. Love you, too. Bye.”