My Wife's Li'l Secret Read Online Free

fruit-flavored ones men don’t usually care for). Then he helped himself to all my fancy and colorful liquors – Baileys, Cape Velvet, Sambuca, Midori. (He made cocktails using my cocktail booklets – a minimum of six different liquors at once.)
    He also slammed shot after shot of tequila until he was swaying on his feet. And to top it off, he quaffed all my precious wine; red, white, sparkling – every fucking thing in my precious bar!
    In less than two weeks my bar was bare. I was fuming.
    “Didn’t your brother just suffer a heart attack a few months ago?” I demanded in a surly voice from my wife who was making him a six-egg ham, cheese, mushroom, tomato and olive omelet, because that’s what he liked to have for breakfast when he wasn’t eating out.
    “How the fuck does his liver handle all of this booze?  Drinking and chain-smoking after a heart attack?”
    With a flick of her wrist, she said, “He can handle his liquor. It’s his Russian blood!” Her voice brimmed with pride, which pissed me off even more.
    He could handle his alcohol, I grudgingly admitted to myself. Could drink a whole bottle of vodka, a couple of shots of tequila, a dozen beers and would still know all the words to "Korobushka," a Russian folk song he and Liefie would sing and do some weird Russian or Ukrainian gypsy dance to.
    Yes, for the first time ever, my wife was hands-in-the-air dancing!
    Despite that fact, I was so pissed off with him that I couldn’t wait for his visit to end. Therapy would be cheaper, I concluded.
    But wait, there’s more!
    While touring Sydney, Viggo met a group of Russians and Ukrainians and struck up a friendship. They hung out every day and whenever he left the house to visit them, he always took along a couple bottles of liquor. From my bar. Took my expensive liquor, without the courtesy of asking me if he could. Just helped himself to it as if he owned the joint. I waited for Liefie to say something to him, but she said nothing. In fact, she seemed to encourage it.
    Make yourself at home. What a fucking dumb thing to say to someone.
    I fumed silently each time I looked at my bar – the bare shelves, the dirty or missing crystal glasses. I balked at the drink stains on the beautiful Beechwood counters and worst of all – the overflowing ashtrays at my bar, which was my pet peeve.
    He smoked inside my house! Inside .
    Even if Viggo forgot my rules about smoking, even if common courtesy didn’t prevail, the NO SMOKING! sign on the wall of my bar should have served as a reminder. The bastard ignored it.
    Why the hell was Liefie allowing him to do this, to behave this way? How could she allow the jerk to smoke inside the house when she had two little kids? Where the fuck were her brains?
    I shook my head in anger at Viggo and at my AWOL wife.
    To think we lost our precious baby because of this arsehole.
    As for my bar, I refused to stock it again, to top up empty bottles, to fill up the kegs – not with that greedy bastard around. So sadly, my bar continued to look naked and …pathetic. And I continued to quietly wish Viggo had died during his last heart attack.
    But I said nothing to him, because Liefie, she blossomed with her brother around – she laughed out loud, danced regularly, dressed like a teenager again, wore make-up, colored her hair, painted her nails and …she left the house.
    She left the house – that was huge.
    Sure, she doted on her arsehole brother, prepared him his favorite foods, waited on him hand and bloody foot, took him around Sydney, spent all my money on him, failed to notice his bad manners, his crudeness and his flagrant abuse of our hospitality, buy hey, my wife was back.
    That was all that mattered, right? So what if I never saw him reciprocate in any way? Liefie loved her brother. That was a good thing.
    I loved my sister Arena, too. Not the adoring, flamboyant, six-egg-omelet-every-morning love that Viggo and Liefie shared, but a quiet, under the surface, profound