Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

The uniforms.

I throw my robe on and race to the laundry, pulling the jerseys from the washing machine and throwing them into the dryer. I go into the kitchen and flick the coffee machine on. I glance at the time on the oven. It’s 6:00 a.m. and it’s very quiet around here.

Oh, that’s right. The kids slept at Grandma’s and Judge Stupid is still asleep upstairs. I wonder what time the jerk got home?

I go to the window and peer down at the garage to see if I can see his Porsche in the driveway. Nope. He must have parked in the garage. Weird. I didn’t hear the garage door like I normally do. It annoys me that it sometimes wakes me up.

Damn it, I'm supposed to be on a post-date high right now, feeling relaxed and refreshed. Instead, I'm tired, menstrual, and I'm pissed—not a good combination to be in any situation. I hope that Tiffany bitch gets in my way today at soccer. I need an excuse to end somebody.

I make myself a cup of coffee and sit at the dining table. I want those jerseys dried and put away before anyone wakes up. Nobody will ever know I’m shit at this nanny gig.

My mind goes over last night’s events and I think I’m angrier now than I was last night, if that’s even possible. I get a vision of him being all witty and charming, and my blood boils.

I wonder… did he pick up that redhead in the end? I roll my eyes in disgust. Imagine if he brought her back here. What would I actually do if she walked down the stairs?

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I imagine them together or her in this house. I'd go batshit crazy if I saw her here now, no doubt about it. I'd probably lose control and karate kick Julian in the dick, too.

I smile as I imagine him doubled over in pain, begging for me not to kick him in the balls again.

Fucking twat.

God, I hate feeling like this. I thought my days of feeling like this were over.

I walk back to the laundry and open the dryer in a rush. The clothes are still wet. Damn it.

I walk back out into the house and look up the stairs.

He wouldn’t have brought her home. No way in hell.

I frown. Would he?

I blow out a deep breath because who knows? I mean, I never thought he would have treated me like he did last night.

Anything is possible now. I bite my lip, looking left and right to check that nobody can see me.

There’s nobody down here, stupid, I remind myself. He sleeps with his door a little ajar. If he brought her home, his door will definitely be closed. If it is… Heaven help him.

I tiptoe up the stairs. I just need to take a peek.

I peer down the hall and see his door is open.

I put my hand on my chest in relief. Thank God. But then I frown. His door, it's too open.

I walk down the hall and look into his room to see his empty bed, unruffled, still made.

What?

He didn’t come home.

Are you kidding me? I storm back down the stairs like The Hulk. I go to the laundry and open the dryer, cursing when I see the clothes are still wet.

“Dry, motherfuckers!” I yell at the jerseys. “Do not mess with me today. Do you understand me?”

I get the second load out of the washing machine and begin to hang them around the heater on the small fold up clothesline. Why didn’t I think of doing this last night?

“Your stupidity astounds me,” I mutter under my breath.

I sit back down and make another cup of coffee, drinking every bit of it in silence.