The hot summer sun had barely dipped below the horizon when the parents' evening at Springfield Elementary was due to begin. This, along with the fact that Springfield was being particularly blessed with heatwaves, made the normally bustling school grounds unusually quiet. They were two weeks away from the summer break.
Ned Flanders was among the first to arrive, seating himself in a chair at the back of the school's auditorium. Marge Simpson came in a few minutes later, scanning the auditorium with an air of distractedness. She seemed surprised when her gaze fell upon Ned, and a blush crept onto her cheeks.
They hadn't been in talks since the fair.
She took her place across the aisle from Ned. Each was acutely aware of the other's presence, trying and failing to focus on the teachers and principal Skinner. They stole glances at each other, hoping or fearing the other would notice.
"Now, parents, we have a comprehensive presentation planned for you tonight," principal Skinner began as he pointed at a white screen on the back wall of the auditorium. The logo of the school was projected on the screen, followed by slides pertaining information about the upcoming school closing ceremony and available summer courses.
"Ned," Marge said, leaning across the aisle to whisper. "Are you following any of this?"
"Honestly, Marge, I'm trying to," he responded, fidgeting with his collar. "But..."
Elaboration wasn't needed. Marge understood, she felt the same way.
"Ned," she murmured again, staring at the power point presentation, not registering any of it. "Homer is doing a night shift at the plant today." Afraid the other parents were listening in on their conversation, she added, "He asked if you could check the faulty faucet again. He has misplaced his… pipe wrenches."
"Oh," Ned whispered back, shifting his weight uncomfortably on the folding chair. He leaned a bit closer, his voice nearly quivering. "Well, Marge, tell Homer not to worry. I've got all the top-notch tools he could ever dream of!"
Marge couldn't help but stifle a giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. The thought of Ned boasting about his superior equipment in such an innocent yet inadvertently suggestive way was too much for her composure.
Ned, realizing how his words might have sounded, turned a shade of red that could rival the crimson of the sunset. He quickly added, "I mean, my wrenches and screwdrivers! They're, uh, very reliable!"
A few parents turned to glance at them, their hushed laughter drawing a bit of attention. Marge quickly composed herself, nodding seriously. "Yes, I'm sure your... tools will be very helpful, Ned."
The two of them tried to refocus on the presentation, but the occasional glance and suppressed smile betrayed their sidetracked minds.
Hours later, under the cover of darkness, Ned found himself under Marge's window. As he gazed up at the window, his heart pounding in his chest. Ned wrestled with his conscience. 'This is wrong, Neddy. You know you should turn back,' he thought, the image of his neatly kept house and the life he knew so well flashing through his mind. 'What would Maude think?'
The mere thought of his late wife twisted his heart into knots. Yet, the temptation was overwhelming, drawing him in like a siren through the mist. Despite his efforts to steer himself back to the straight and narrow, the allure of what might be waiting in Marge's room was too strong. With a deep, resigned sigh, he began to scale the tree that led to her bedroom. 'I need to put this feeling to rest,' he rationed to himself, knowing full well how perilous was the step he was about to take. Marge paced anxiously inside; her heart matching Ned's rhythm beat for beat.
The soft thud of Ned tumbling through the window startled her. His landing inside Marge's room was less graceful than he had envisioned. As he stumbled to regain his balance, a small decorative vase wobbled dangerously on the dresser. Marge lunged to save it, narrowly avoiding a crash.
"Whoops-a-doodle!" Ned exclaimed, his voice thin and uneasy.
They stood there for a moment, sounding out their surroundings, before Marge took a step closer. Trepidation be damned. They both leaned in for a kiss, but their timing was off. Ned moved right as Marge moved left, resulting in a clumsy bump of foreheads instead of the intended romantic connection.
"Ouch! Sorry, Marge, I guess I'm not very good at this…" he veered off, not wanting to give a name to what they were engaging in, "…stuff," he concluded, rubbing his forehead.
"It's okay, Ned," Marge replied, her voice tinged with jitters of her own. "Let's try that again, maybe?"
As they went in for another attempt, Ned's glasses fogged up, obscuring his vision. This time, their lips barely grazed each other's cheeks, missing the mark once again.
Determined, Marge reached up to pull off Ned's shirt, hoping to set a more romantic mood. However, in her haste, the shirt got tangled around his head, trapping his arms. Ned wiggled and jiggled, trying to free himself, his muffled voice emanating from within the fabric.
"Marge, I think I'm stuck."
Amid fits of laughter that released their pent-up nerves, Marge assisted Ned in freeing himself. Their clumsy efforts at intimacy somehow eased the tension that had wound them up so tightly.
Finally free from his shirt, Ned took a deep breath and composed himself. He looked into Marge's eyes, his expression softening. Slowly, he leaned in, and this time their lips met in a proper kiss.
He cradled the back of her neck, tickling the fine blue hair that spilled from the hairline. She whimpered into the kiss and melted into his touches. It had been unbearably long since man's fingers had last touched her in this gentle, exploratory way. Like searching for a long-forgotten treasure that once belonged to another.
Ned was emboldened by Marge's soft murmurs, and soon both of them tumbled onto the marital bed, of which box spring had sunk deep into a hollow on one side. Occasionally, the absurdity of the situation reminded Marge of itself, but she didn't care. She had cared for years about everything except her own happiness. Even if her joy was now stolen and wrong, she needed it.
Soft lips tickled Marge at the spot behind her ear, making her squirm for the first time in years. Her toes tingled as Ned's hand slipped under the green hem and began to push the fabric upward.
"Ned," Marge gasped, grabbing the man by his upper arms. The muscles sculpted by regular exercise did not yield under even the firmest grip. Marge bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. "I never thought it would be like this," she confessed.
Ned hummed questioningly, but before he could answer, Marge's mouth covered his own again. He kissed back, losing his train of thought. The kisses grew deeper, more frantic as their hands began to wander across each other's bodies.
As Ned's fingers explored Marge's chest, the tip of her tongue pushed inside his mouth and ran against his palate. A muffled, desperate groan escaped his throat as his hips rolled down on the mattress in a half-hearted attempt at control. Marge responded by hitching one leg up on his side, grinding her hips upward. Ned broke the kiss, gasping for breath.
"Marge...I..." he struggled with the words.
"Shh..." she whispered into his ear, nibbling the lobe.
"Honey, I'm home!" An unexpected holler came from downstairs, and the hand that had inched under Ned's slacks suddenly froze.
Panic flashed across Marge's face, and she instinctively pushed Ned off the bed. In a rush to find his shirt, Ned stumbled around the room like a newborn calf, tripping over the edge of the rug and almost crashing into the nightstand.
"Where did I fling that darn shirt?" Ned muttered, frantically searching under the bed, his legs sticking out like he had been run over by the furniture.
Marge, meanwhile, was in a frenzy trying to make the bed look normal. She yanked at the duvet, but in her haste, she pulled too hard, sending a hairspray bottle from the nightstand flying straight into Ned's head just as he emerged from under the bed.
"Oof!" Ned grunted, more surprised than hurt, as he finally located his shirt tangled up with the curtains.
They collided once more as Ned rushed to hide in the adjacent restroom, pulling the shirt over his head in a fluster. Marge, her hair a mess and face flushed, tried to smooth down her dress.
Just then, the bedroom door swung open with Homer barging in, a wide, inebriated grin plastered on his face. "Wifey, I've missed you!" he slurred, seemingly oblivious to the chaos. He missed the green-shirted blur that darted under their bed.
Ned, lying flat under the bed, held his breath as Homer's heavy footsteps neared. Marge, her face a picture of forced calm, tried to redirect Homer's attention. "Homey, why don't we go downstairs? I'll make you a nice sandwich."
Homer, buoyed by his night out, moved clumsily towards Marge with open arms. "No, no, I wanna cuddle with my gorgeous wife!"
Marge, quick on her feet, dodged his advances. "Actually, Homer, you smell like the inside of Moe's bar. How about a quick shower first?"
Homer gave her a stubborn grin and loosened the collar of his shirt.
"Oh, you wanting a lil' show, wifey? Shure," he garbled, his words tumbling out with drunken enthusiasm. He licked his lips in a way that he thought was charming, but Marge's expression clearly conveyed it wasn't.
Ned, still hidden under the bed, crumpled his nose in disgust and accidentally jerked his head, hitting it against the bedframe with a thud. The sound was unmistakable, and Marge coughed loudly to mask it. Her eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking an excuse, any excuse, to prevent the impending display from her inebriated husband.
Lisa, having heard Ned's initial blunder into their home, decided to intervene. She walked into the bedroom, feigning a look of innocent confusion, a math textbook clutched tightly in her hand.
"Dad, I need help with this problem. It's for my summer math challenge," she said, her voice a perfect blend of urgency and innocence. Homer, momentarily distracted from his amorous intentions, turned his attention to Lisa. "Oh, right, math. Uh, sure, let's go look at that," he mumbled, his drunken state making him easily swayed. Lisa gently took his arm, leading him out of the bedroom and giving Marge a subtle, knowing glance.
As they descended the staircase, a muffled sneeze rang from under the bed, followed by a quiet curse. Marge rushed over and helped Ned out, straightening his crumpled clothes. They were both a sight, faces red from both excitement and fear.
"Hurry, Ned. Out the window," she whispered urgently.
"No argument here," Ned replied, moving quickly.
Once back in the safety of his own home, Ned sat in the quiet of his living room. He replayed the night's events, still feeling the heat of Marge's skin under his fingertips. He knew that the lines had been blurred further, but he also knew he didn't want to erase them. As he closed his eyes, the image of Marge's face, flushed with desire and pleading with him not to stop, came to him again. The memory of her lips on his, of her body pressed close to him, filled his mind, and set his skin aflame.
Long after the lights in most houses had dimmed, the Simpson house was still awash with quiet activity. Marge sat in the living room, her mind wrestling with her emotions. As the night progressed, her conscience was being assaulted by an increasing sense of wrongdoing – would Homer notice something off about her? The guilt of betrayal had kept her up many nights, but she didn't find the will to stop herself. She knew that this was wrong. It was everything the preachers at church warned about, but it also made her feel more alive than she had felt in years.
Lisa, armed with an uncanny maturity that belied her years, joined her.
"Mom," Lisa began, her voice uncharacteristically solemn. "We need to talk."
Marge nodded, and her daughter took a seat beside her. Lisa placed a comforting hand on her mother's. Marge's knuckles turned white.
"Why haven't you left Homer, mom?"
Marge's expression softened. She looked at Lisa, her eyes heavy with emotion. "Because, Lisa, despite everything...I care for your father. Leaving him...it would break him. And I don't want to break up our family."
"But he's not much of a husband, is he?" Lisa pointed out, her face showing a mixture of sorrow and defiance. "Wouldn't it be better for all of us if you just divorced?"
"No, Lisa, I can't do that," Marge responded, her voice soft yet resolute. "When I made the vow 'until death do us part,' I took it very seriously. I know your father can be...well, himself...but he's part of our family. We've been together for so long... and he needs me."
Lisa looked down, her voice laced with frustration and resignation. "I just wish dad wasn't so selfish, mom. He's never home and he doesn't even appreciate you. You're like his housekeeper more than anything else."
Marge's face was grim but she still gave a weak smile.
"If you're not ready to leave him, you need to end this thing with Ned," Lisa said, her tone firm.
A silence fell over the room, Marge's face crumbled, and she began to cry softly. "I can't do that either, Lisa...I just can't."
Their conversation ended on a note of gloom. Mother and daughter realized that some choices were never easy. Marge was torn between her love for her family, her care for Homer, and the budding feelings for Ned. Lisa, on the other hand, struggled to reconcile the image of her mother with the woman who was just as fallible as the rest of them.