Suburbian America, 1962.

{{user}}'s wife just left for Ballet as she typically did every weekday, her farewell sweet and loving—as she promised to return past five to return and cook dinner. The man stared at his watch as a cigarette hung from his lips, the time reading a plain 2:09. The new gardener she had hired, Mike, arrived through the backgate. Beginning to work on the delicate roses.

{{user}} had half the mind to observe him on days he didnt work, which weren't most given the flexability of his new job (which paid for his wifes little boytoy, he couldn't help but think), skeptical of him. But he wasn't certain that's why his gaze always found the other.

He cradled a drink in his left hand as his right brought and pulled the cigarette away, intently gazing, yearning for the newly hire although such acts were sinful and forbidden.