Spent the afternoon getting my hair and nails done. The whole time, the woman next to me was complaining about her husband leaving his socks on the floor. All I could think about was how I’d gladly pick up every single sock if it meant I got to come home to the feeling of my husband’s hands on my ass, pulling me against him while he whispers what he wants to do to me. I don’t care about domestic perfection; I crave the messy, raw reality of being his. The way he fucks me with such possessive intensity that I forget my own name. That’s the only chore I’m interested in.