Searching for Perfection

Apologies for typos, errors, misuse of 'I' and 'Me', etc. I self-edit, taking great care over several proof reads to get it right, with intentions to publish every story without error, where I'm always searching for perfection. But the little bastard typos and mistakes still get through.

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© 2022 Thefireflies, for Literotica

THURSDAY

An event occurs most weekday mornings, almost like clockwork, where Bridget steps naked from the shower and I take her place. Her skin glistens, steam rising, and naturally I'm naked too. Often we make eye-contact and sometimes she even smiles, partly because it's her nature to smile, but also because she's the morning person in this partnership, very recently returned from a run and now she's freshly showered, having washed all her sweat away.

The moment passes quickly because we need to get moving, but every now and then we softly rub against or bump into one another, as we do now. The collision of our naked skin is mostly unintentional in our cramped ensuite, but I'll occasionally contrive the contact, and I'd like to think she does too.

Sometimes, but rarely these days, I'll caress her buttocks or thigh with the tips of my fingers. Once upon a time it was a staple of our intimacy. But this is about as much naked intimate contact we've shared for...well, if you must know, it's four months since we last had sex.

~0~

Another day, another shower to rinse the cobwebs from my groggy head. Warm water falls over me while I watch Bridget through the steamy glass. She stands at our vanity and mirror, waving the hairdryer over her hair, normally a subtle mix of light and dark browns depending on how light falls upon her, but currently wet and dark and limp, falling to her shoulder blades. When her hair dries she'll likely scrutinise several strands, where every now and then she finds a grey hair, then she'll tut tut with annoyance. But she's almost literally splitting hairs to find them.

Damn, there's a magnificence about her, no word of a lie. A level of perfection I cannot describe. She's beautiful and while I've always tried to play it cool about her beauty, I know I've been punching way above my weight for the past fifteen years.

Long before we were married I used to joke-but-not-joke, "There's nothing bland about you, Bridget Bland." Bland is her maiden name if you must know and I still use it sometimes, because affection reasons. Sometimes I think of saying something, anything. Burst from the shower, exclaiming, "Holy shit, Bridge, you're fucking gorgeous!"

I suppose it would be a tad weird, but seriously, look at her: tall with a gorgeous mix of womanly curves and athletic muscle. Up and running most mornings before I can even think of struggling out of bed, plus she swims laps some days, does pilates in our lounge room other days, heads to the gym once or twice a week at the university where she works. All this despite motherhood and life in general trying to slow or curb some of her physical pursuits over the past decade.

There have been times when Bridget has expressed her worries about losing her old figure, her young figure, where my answer is she looks as beautiful and perfect as ever, because she does, but she brushed my comment off with a dismissive, "Oh, you're only saying that because you have to."

I'm not just saying it, but it's my way to joke, where I replied, "Anyhow, thicc is hot," but she doesn't always appreciate my humour, and I recall I received a frown. I've got to say, her frowns are pretty cute.

If anyone's grown curvier it's me, and I'm definitely becoming concerned about my weight. Piled on fifteen to twenty kilograms in the last five or six years I reckon. There's a paunch growing over my once flat belly and long-disappeared six-pack abs. They're still there when I clench them, but you wouldn't know it to look at me, and Bridget occasionally has the gall to point these things out with her own brand of humour.

"When's the baby due?" she recently asked. Now, can you imagine if I'd said such a thing to her! And I probably would and get into trouble for it, but my reply was, "I can't be pregnant, got to have sex to make a baby."

She screwed up her face with exaggerated derision and I'd grinned at her. Still, I revelled in the lingering feeling of where her fingertips caressed my belly moments before, choosing to enjoy her touch rather than her jestful barb.

When Bridget stands naked at the mirror, as she does now, still drying her hair, I sometime recall the early days of our relationship, and even into the early years of our marriage, where more than a few times we'd be in the bathroom and she'd lean over with hands on the vanity, pushing her bum back with a waggle and inviting me to plunge my cock into her gloriously wet pussy, both of us pushing deeply together. She'd look into my eyes via the mirror and her smile would grow into an orgasmic O as she'd inadvertently squeak and moan and gasp my name, and I'd groan, and sometimes we'd even cum simultaneously, or close enough, our bodies pulsating together, overtaken with ecstasy.

And love. We were so in love in those days. I can't even describe how in love we were. It'd probably sicken you if I tried, even if you are here for pure romance.

There was a fuck-load of lust between us, too, and occasionally my cock grows at my memories of our earlier days, and if I was alone right now I might give into my desires and take care of myself, but there's no time today, because work and stuff await, and I'm not alone right now, so I let the thoughts go, lathering up with body wash instead.

Moments later Bridget turns to leave the room, where I take one last peek at her glorious nakedness through the steamy glass. She's still playing with her hair, arms up, lovely boobs on display, but she doesn't even glance in my direction.

She didn't even see my semi-erection.

~0~

Despite Bridget exiting the shower before me, every single day I'm dressed before her while she fusses about making herself look beautiful for work. How many times have I told her, "You look perfect without make-up, my love," where she almost always answers, "Got to look professional, Rick."

Personally, I don't get it, but apparently it's not professional to possess a natural sprinkle of freckles, some other minor sun damage and a few faint lines appearing over the past year or two, plus the scar on her chin you'd hardly notice. She's been doing this as long as I've known her, where she applies a little make-up almost every morning.

I think about the silly expectations and conventions society places upon women. I don't even have to wear a tie, except for important meetings with important people. Which reminds me, I have an important meeting with so-called important people early tomorrow morning and should set my alarm at least half-an-hour earlier, to give me time to get going.

With a sigh, I think, Future Rick can set my alarm, but right now I need coffee, stat!

~0~

Something new in our routine happens this morning: coffee awaits both me and Bridget, courtesy of nine year-old Ebony, bless her. She's sitting in her pyjamas at the dining table, sunbeams streaming through the window glowing off her caramel brown hair like her mother's, all while she spoons cereal into her mouth and reads a book.

"You made this?" I ask.

"Yup," she replies without looking up.

I'm not going to question why Ebony made coffee for us. I am going to accept this miracle with one word: "Thanks."

"No worries, Daddy."

"Hmmm, smells divine too. Oh, and thanks for feeding Arrow and Peg."

"It's my routine."

Sure is, but you do it like a boss. She's taken on the dog feeding responsibility over the past year without fuss and until this moment of miracle coffee, I thought perhaps it was because she loved Arrow and Peggy more than us. I wouldn't blame her; sometimes I think I love the dogs more than my kids.

Just kidding...maybe...

Sipping at my coffee, which is pretty bloody good, I ask, "Is your brother up?"

"Don't know, don't care."

I withhold my chuckle, pausing my toast-making and coffee-drinking to look at my mini clone of Bridget, even with black rimmed glasses like her mother's. And like her mother she's a morning person, and there's several other traits she gets from Bridget, but she inherited plenty of my sarcasm and a touch of cynicism. She probably gets the random coffee making trait from Bridget, because it's something I imagine Bridget might have done by the time she was nine, but it's a new one for Ebony, and whatever, she's a great kid.

"You're lucky you did a cracking job with this coffee," I tell her. She finally looks up from the book and screws her face up at me. I screw my face up too, and she doubles down with her face making, then sticks her middle finger up, and naturally I stick my finger up at her, and her face breaks into a look of amused shock, then she giggles and I laugh.

"What are you two laughing at?" Bridget asks, entering the room, now dressed in a pleated black skirt adorned with blue flowers, and a simple white blouse, her hair simply and smartly held in place with a claw-style clip. "And where's Jordan? Is he up?"

Enjoying the moment I'd shared with Ebony, I'm tempted to tell Bridget, Don't know, don't care, for laughs and all, but you know I'm not going to.

"We're laughing at you," Ebony tells her mother, but also flashes her beaming smile.

Bridget smiles and says, "I'm glad to hear you laughing and see your beautiful smile, but it's time to put your book down and get cracking or you'll be late for school."

Ebony rolls her eyes and I give her a funny look, then say to Bridget, "Go easy, she made us coffees," and Ebony gives me a sheepish grin.

I can almost hear her voice in my head, saying, I know you've always got my back, Daddy, but what she actually says is, "I'm close to finishing this chapter and I can't stop on page fifty-seven."

Bridget does a double take between her coffee mug and Ebony, and declares, "Of course you can finish your chapter, sweetheart. And thank you for the coffee."

"I'll go find Jordan," I tell Bridget with a chuckle, then point to the toaster and say, "Let there be toast!" And it pops as if I'd commanded it so.

Bridget gives me a look, like maybe she's amused but doesn't want to admit it, and I give her a grin, and Ebony smiles, saying, "Couldn't have planned that if you tried, Daddy."

"Pfft, I didn't plan it, it was magic," I say. "It's about time we told you how you come from a long line of magicians. Magee, Magic, you can see the link."

Ebony Magee rolls her eyes again, to which I give another chuckle, before catching Bridget's dark eyes which look even bigger behind her glasses, and she says, "You better go magic up our other child, Mr Magic Magee, because he needs to be ready for school."

"I'm onto it."

It's not hard to find Jordan; he's upstairs in his bedroom, lying in a sun-patch on the floor rug between our old bitsa, Arrow, and younger Border Collie, Peggy. Two doggy heads rise, watching me as tails begin wagging against the rug, and Jordan says, "Daddy, I'm a dog."

"Are you now?"

"Uh, huh," he says, matter of fact. "And dogs don't have to go to school."

"Yes they do," I say, crouching to pat Peggy and Arrow in turn. Both stand and the old-boy starts nuzzling into me while his younger playmate crosses the room to fetch something from among Jordan's toys. I contemplate my son lying there with his wild tangles of honey-blond hair and green eyes he shares with my side of the family, giving him a smile. "Dogs go to puppy school and they need to eat and be groomed before they go, just like little long-haired louts. Come, you should eat breakfast and brush the vines you're growing on your head."

Jordan giggles, but says, "Dogs sleep in the sun all day, so sleeping in the sun is what I want to do. And I want you and Mummy to stay home too and play with me and Arrow and Peggy."

"What about Ebb, do you want her to stay home?"

"No, Ebby can go to school."

"Up until the end of last year you've followed Ebb everywhere like a bad smell," I tell him, because he did, where he worshiped his big sister. His look suggests disbelief, but I smile and Arrow pushes against me again, receiving more pats. "And believe me, Mummy and I would love to stay at home and hang out with both you and Ebby, but we all have to go to school, mate. It's just how it is."

"You and Mummy don't go to school, you go to work!"

"It's true, we go to work, and you go to school, and that's how things work."

I say this with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, resulting in smiles from Jordan. Arrow lays back in the sun and Peggy drops a slobbery tennis ball at my side, looking expectantly at me, but Jordan picks the ball up and rolls it out the door where it bumps down the stairs and cyclone Peggy is after it like a blur.

Watching my son, I say, "This doesn't have anything to do with your playground argument with Harrison and Dylan, does it?"

"No, and I didn't argue with them, they were arguing with each other. I don't want to go because you and Mummy are always at work. Sometimes you even work when you're at home, like you were last night. And the night before, and the night before that one too. And Mummy also worked the other night."

"I know, I know. Sorry. But we're not working this weekend, which is in two days' time. You have soccer, then we're going to Mummy's aunty's anniversary party, so the quicker you get ready for school, the quicker you come home, and before you know it it'll be the weekend!"

Jordan smiles. "I can't wait for the weekend. Mummy said Aunty Robyn and Uncle Sam have a pool!"

"Do they? She didn't tell me their new property has a pool. Sounds exciting! But it reminds me, I'm taking you to your swimming lesson this arvy, so don't forget to pack your togs and towel before you leave. And your goggles, we don't want a repeat of last week."

"I don't want to go to swimming lessons."

"But you do want to swim at Mummy's Aunty Robyn's house, right?"

"Yeah, but I can already swim and Aunty Robyn's not making me do lessons."

The little so-and-so is smiling up at me and I can't fault his logic. "I know you can swim, mate, but you need to practice to get better at it."

"Gotta learn to swim for safety before you can swim for fun," Bridget says, crouching down in Jordan's doorway, giving Peggy a vigorous pat. "Now, sweetie, like Daddy says, you do need to go to school and I've made you toast for breakfast, and we do need to fix this messy hair of yours while Daddy makes your lunch."

Jordan stands and Bridget and I share a look and she gives me a thumbs up and smile. Teamwork, I think, smiling back at the mother of my children.

Back down in the kitchen the coffee's luke-warm now, but the toast is spread with margarine and vegemite. Ebony's disappeared, but I know she'll get herself ready so don't need to encourage her in the slightest, and Jordan's finally at the table eating his breakfast, making faces and sometimes complaining when Bridget draws the comb through his tangled locks.

Without looking up from the task at hand, Bridget reminds me, "Don't forget I'm watching Cara's game tonight. We might catch up for a quick bite to eat after, so don't worry about making dinner for me."

"Yep, I do remember," I reply with a mouthful of toast, while slapping cheese slices onto buttered bread, adding tomato for Jordan but keeping it well away from fusspot Ebony's. I'm cutting them into halves, Ebony's as close to dead centre as I can make it, despite part of me wanting to make them a little uneven, for you know, resilience reasons. For my next Daddy challenge I'll have Ebony making her own lunch, and maybe her brother's too.

"What!" Jordan sounds outraged. "You're seeing Aunty Cara play basketball without us?"

"I want to see my little sister," Bridget explains. "We don't get time to see one another anymore like you and Ebb do."

"I don't always want to see Ebby," Jordan says, and I supress my chuckle.

"You were going to laugh weren't you, Daddy." It's Ebony, walking up behind me, almost making me jump, leaving me wondering how she could tell I wanted to laugh.

"See, I told ya you're from a long line of witches."

"I thought it was magicians?"

"Yeah, whatever."

She screws her face at me again and I do it back. This could go back and forth forever, and part of me hopes it does, because I'm enjoying this friendly jeering and jesting banter with my daughter. She's in her school uniform and places her bag on the empty chair next to her brother, turning to him, and says, "It's okay, Jordes, the feeling's mutual because I don't want to see you either."

Well, I hope their friendship grows positively into the future. But one miracle's enough for today, because I don't think it'll happen right now, especially when Jordan pokes his tongue out at Ebony, screwing his face up, but with a flash of genuine displeasure.

Note to self: Jordan doesn't get sarcasm like Ebony does, so we must be careful how Ebony and I interact in front of him, because he's starting to copy me, but not in a fun way.

Bridget doesn't take part in the shenanigans, instead telling the kids, "Your Aunty Cara and I didn't always get along but now I'd say she's my best friend in the whole world and she'd say the same about me. And you two might not realise it, but you will get to be friends forever."

"Friends, whether you like it or not," I add before shoving more toast in my mouth.

"As if," Ebony snorts.

"I thought Daddy was your best friend," Jordan says with genuine sincerity, making a face when Bridget tugs at a stubborn knot.

"Yeah, Bridge, I thought I was your best friend?"

Bridget gives me the look, you know the one, and probably disgusted with me for speaking with my mouth full of food, but I counter with my own look of sincerity, as if I'm hurt to find out her sister is in fact her best friend and not me, and for a second I think she's going to smile or laugh, but she doesn't.

She returns her attention to Jordan's hair, saying, "Daddy and I see each other all the time and I don't get to see Aunty Cara very much because she lives two hours away. But tonight her team is playing here in town and I'm going along to watch."

Jordan spins around, his face the picture of hope. "Can I come too?"

This could turn into serious pestering, depending on how Bridget handles our son. But she gives him her trillion dollar smile and says, "Sorry, sweetheart, but it's just me going this time. But you and your darling sister who loves you very, very much are going to hang out with Daddy for a few hours without me. You'll have to keep your father in line, do you think you can handle it?"

Without missing a beat, and before Jordan can respond, Ebony looks to me and says, "We're having pizza, right?"

"Yes we are," I reply, immediately on the same wave length.

"Yesss!" she says, pumping her fist like she's won the greatest prize ever.

"Pizza!" Jordan says, his eyes lighting up.

Bridget gives me another look, then makes a gesturing nod at my belly. "Feeding for two, eh?"

"Fat shaming, Bridge. We'll have none of that, thank you very much."

And she gives me a little grin and chuckle, making me smile. But Jordan squeals because his mother's inattentively pulled at his hair where the comb has caught more tangles, and Bridget says, "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

"You keep pulling," our son replies, frowning.

"Them's the breaks, mate," I say, "You're the one who refuses to get a haircut."