At their weekly wine night in suburban Phoenix, four wives were discussing how to keep a little excitement in a marriage.
“My husband bought me roses,” said Linda.
“Mine booked a weekend away,” said Carol.
“My husband bought me a vacuum cleaner,” said Diane. “Apparently, he wants to experience life as a single man.”
Then everyone turned to Maggie, who had been married to Bill for twenty-eight years.
“Bill says our marriage needs more mystery,” she explained.
Carol nodded. “That sounds promising.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of mystery,” Maggie said. “Who leaves one spoonful of milk in the carton? Who thinks a laundry basket is a decorative object? And how does a man who can find a sports channel in a hotel in Nebraska fail to find butter in his own refrigerator?”
Linda leaned forward.
“Have you tried surprising him? A little lipstick, a little music, something different?”
Maggie took a thoughtful sip of wine.
“Well, last week he mentioned a French maid outfit.”
The other women immediately put down their glasses.
“And?”
“I told him we already had a maid. She just wears yoga pants and looks disappointed.”
Nevertheless, on Friday afternoon, Maggie decided to play along.
She bought a little black dress, a white apron, a feather duster, and heels that looked beautiful as long as she remained seated.
Then she sent Bill a message:
Come straight home tonight. Your French maid is waiting.
Bill replied in eleven seconds.
For comparison, Maggie’s previous message—Please pick up toilet paper—had been unanswered since Tuesday.
At five thirty, Bill burst through the front door carrying flowers, chocolates, and a bottle of expensive champagne.
Maggie stood in the hallway, one hand on her hip.
“Well, monsieur,” she purred, “you are finally home.”
Bill nearly dropped the champagne.
“You look incredible!”
“Merci.”
He stepped closer.
“So… what happens first?”
Maggie slowly ran the feather duster across his shoulder.
“First, monsieur takes off his clothes.”
Bill’s eyebrows shot up.
“All of them?”
“Your work clothes, darling. And this time, put them in the hamper.”
“Right. Of course.”
He hurried upstairs and returned wearing a bathrobe, grinning like a man whose lottery ticket had just been checked twice.
Maggie handed him a pair of rubber gloves.
He examined them.
“What are these for?”
“The fantasy.”
He glanced at the gloves, then at her.
“I didn’t realize it was that kind of fantasy.”
“Oh, Bill. You have no idea.”
She led him into the kitchen.
“Tonight, we begin with something hot and steamy.”
Bill smiled.
Maggie opened the dishwasher.
“Careful. I just ran it.”
His smile weakened.
“You want me to unload this?”
“Slowly, monsieur. I don’t like a man who rushes.”
Ten minutes later, she guided him toward the laundry room.
“Now,” she whispered, “I want you to separate the whites.”
Bill stared at the overflowing basket.
“Maggie, is this still part of the evening?”
“Every delicious minute.”
He sorted the laundry while she sat on the dryer sipping champagne.
Whenever he tried to complain, she adjusted her apron and said, “Are you giving up already?”
Bill kept sorting.
Next came the bathroom.
Maggie handed him a brush.
“I want you on your knees.”
For one hopeful second, Bill brightened.
Then he noticed the bucket.
By eight o’clock, he had unloaded the dishwasher, folded two baskets of laundry, cleaned the bathroom, taken out the trash, and changed the sheets.
He found Maggie relaxing on the couch, eating one of the chocolates he had brought her.
“I have to admit,” he said, catching his breath, “when you mentioned a French maid, I imagined a very different evening.”
Maggie patted the cushion beside her.
“Come here, handsome.”
Bill sat down.
She kissed his cheek.
“Wasn’t it exciting?”
“It was exhausting.”
“But you tried things you’ve never tried before.”
“That’s true.”
“And you got a little sweaty.”
“Very sweaty.”
“And now we have fresh sheets.”
Bill looked toward the stairs.
His confidence returned.
“So… do I finally get my fantasy?”
Maggie smiled.
“Of course, darling.”
She handed him the television remote.
“You can watch whatever you like while I take a bath.”
Bill stared at her.
“Hold on. I thought tonight was supposed to be about fulfilling my deepest desire!”
Maggie took another sip of champagne.
“It was. You said you wanted to sleep with a woman who wasn’t tired and cranky.”
She pointed toward the spotless kitchen.
“Congratulations, sweetheart. You’ve finally done the foreplay.”😂
