Before my husband officially moved in, I gave him a key to my apartment so that he could let himself in rather than waiting for me to get home or waking me up—whichever was the case for the particular day. It worked out well for me—I would frequently come home to dinner waiting on the table. It made Salvador happy as well as it gave him access to a space that was much more private than the apartment he shared with his friends.
One evening my shift at the restaurant where we worked ended before his, so I went home and took a bubble bath—a rare treat for me. I relaxed and played music on my iPod. When I checked the time, I noticed that Sal should be home in about 30 minutes; I got out so I could make him some dinner.
I drained the tub, turned off the iPod, and quickly dried my hair. With my robe on, I turned, opened the door, and jumped back screaming.
There, standing in the darkness of the hallway outside the bathroom door, was Sal. He laughed at my reaction and then said, “I just wait for you.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Perhaps you could have done that on the couch.”