Mrs. Morrison knits a jumper, surrounded by balls of soft, red wool. Mr. Morrison pretends to read the newspaper, but they both know that he won’t get as far as the crossword puzzle because he’s too busy listening to the click-clack of the knitting needles. It’s the same every Saturday night; it has been for twenty three years, and after all this time, she still hasn’t finished her husband’s jumper.
‘I might finish this jumper this week’, Mrs. Morrison states, bowing her head to conceal the rapidly growing smirk on her face.
Mr. Morrison glances up from his paper, watches his wife’s quick hands perform their magic; he likes the winding of the wool but mostly the sound as the needles clink together, it sends a sensual tingle right down his spine.
‘I don’t think you will’, he challenges her, which makes her giggle.
‘Oops, I made a little blunder’, she confesses in that little girl lost voice which drives him crazy.
‘What did you do?’ he growls.
‘I dropped a stitch’, she admits with wide eyes.
‘Say it again’, Mr. Morrison orders.
‘I dropped a stitch’, she says with slow, sultry repetition.
Mr. Morrison groans and trembles with desire, and leads his wife by the hand to the bedroom, leaving a trail of red wool up the stairs.
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