(Inspired by this – NSFW picture at link)
Six-fifteen was her favorite time of day. The last of the pre-schoolers were always picked up by one, and she walked through her front door no later than two-oh-seven. She washed the breakfast dishes, pulled the night’s dinner meat into the sink to defrost. On Wednesdays, she did the laundry, washed the sheets on alternating Fridays. It was a point of pride for her to keep the house tidy, so any small cleaning that needed to be done never took her long, and so she always started running her bath by three-forty-five.
The bath was an indulgence. Even her long, lithe body had no trouble stretching out in the marble monstrosity that could easily have held three others the same size as her, and on one highly memorable occasion, had. She kept a variety of fragrance oils on the counter; selecting the proper scent for the evening was a particular treat for her. She lay her head back and closed her eyes, luxuriating in the moment. Only the flicker of a vanilla-scented candle threw any light into the room, and the only sounds were those of the water against her skin as she moved.
Most people could easily lose track of time in such an environment, maybe even fall asleep. But she’d done this too often; her body knew the pace too well. She knew without looking when it was five-o’clock and left the nirvana of her bath, never off by more than three minutes. She dried herself — patting, never rubbing, to keep as much of the scented oil against her skin as possible — and took the extra time to rinse the tub to keep it pristine for the next time. If laundry was done, she put it away. If sheets were washed, she remade the bed. She did these things nude, allowing the air to finish the drying, enjoying the scent wafting from her body as she moved.
At six exactly, she selected a pair of heels from her collection, maybe something in shiny red leather, or a dark blue suede with stilletos, or, like tonight, one of the black, strappy, open-toed affairs. For a touch of whimsy, she added some long, beaded necklaces of different lengths, some falling just between her breasts, some drooping down almost to her navel. She sat down in her favorite chair, the one by the window, ran a brush through her hair, and checked herself in a small hand mirror. Perfect; she needed nothing else.
And then, at six-fifteen, she was rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the universe. His car, pulling into the driveway.
Daddy was home.