I place my
sweaty palm against the cool pane of glass. My fingertips tingle
even though I am not actually touching him. I can picture myself
touching him. His breath fogs the glass, obscuring his eyes, but
I can still see every scar, every wayward hair in stark detail.
I try to burn them, burn this moment into my mind. This is all
that separates us, a quarter inch of cloudy glass. Could I break
it? I would if it were possible. I’d like to ram my fist
through it, shatter it into a thousand pieces.
I hope that
it would hurt. I hope the glass would tear my skin to shreds.
I would savor the ache as a physical manifestation of what’s
going on in my heart. I’d like to carry a scar from it,
an eternal reminder. Something besides the strange art work that
he sends me these days, I would like to touch him again and smear
my blood across his lips, as if somehow imparting a part of my
life to him would heal him. I wish my blood were the balm of Gilead,
to soothe whatever plagues him.
cannot break it though. It’s Plexiglas. Perhaps I could
if I had a blowtorch, but that’s just idiocy. So I am forced
to watch his beloved features, his mobile mouth, through the scratched
and bubbled pane. The telephone is pressed to my ear and I can
hear him breathing but he says nothing. What is there to say anymore?
I love you, I miss you, and the world is bleak without you...
These things have no more meaning. They are just words. They cannot
give him back to me. They cannot soothe the betrayal. They cannot
soothe the hurt. They fix nothing. They only make it harder.
ago we were young. I can still see vestiges of that youth in his
eyes, in his generous mouth and his slightly crooked teeth. When
he smiles I see the man I loved, but he threw it away. For one
night with her. One indiscretion cost him everything and I wonder
if he regrets it. I wonder if he can regret it anymore. I remember...
I wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t remember anything.
I wish it would fade like a bad dream.
He was my
husband and my partner, when he came home smelling like perfume
that was not mine I did not question him, nor did I question why
his hair was wet and freshly combed. I did not question why he
swept me into his arms and literally carried me to our bedroom.
All that mattered was the fact that he looked at me as if he was
seeing me for the very first time.
me with gentle clumsy fingers that caught on my buttons and in
my zipper. With soft words and softer lips he roamed over the
hills of my breasts, teasing my nipples until my sex ached with
the want of him but no amount of pleading would draw him inside
me. He was not done. He lavished attention on my stomach, covered
with the angry red highways of stretch marks that were the testament
of our child. His kisses were like a trail of fire down my body
and I felt that he was branding me.
He ran feathery
fluttery touches across my inner thighs and inhaled the scent
of my sex, burying his face in the soft nest of curls at the ‘v’
of my legs. Almost imperceptibly he moved lower, parting my lips
with two fingers and letting his tongue slip slide across my already
slick clitoris. I came in a soft slow sigh but with shudders that
racked my body and a series of powerful contractions.
lying on my stomach. I pressed my thighs close together trying
to prolong the sweet mystery that is an orgasm. I felt his lips
move along my back, the tender oft-neglected flesh there tingled
with electric shivers. I wanted to shy away from him and yet I
did not want him to stop. It was a sweet torment and it was too
much for me. I backed my hips against him insistently and was
rewarded with the sound of his zipper.
He met no
resistance and slid into the inviting depths of my pussy and I
felt that first penetration in my core. His hands on my hips massaged
my flesh as he moved slowly and he reached around to cup my breasts,
folding himself over me completely. I was covered and filled and
there was nothing but the feeling of him moving inside me. It
had been too long…too long since we had made love. I was
not about to waste it.
himself against me, thrusting hard into me as he spent himself
and I could feel the throbbing spurts of his cock. I lowered my
head, letting hair hang in my face and sweat drip onto the bed.
I felt him shudder and then roll away. I looked at him through
heavy lidded eyes and leaning near him I placed a kiss on the
corner of his mouth before I moved to the bathroom. His cum had
dripped down my legs already, caught in my hair. I cleaned myself
as best I could and then returned to our room, ready now to ask
him what exactly had come over him.
I found him
crying. I was shocked, speechless. In all our years he had cried
only a handful of times and now, to see him weeping like a child
with his head buried in his hands confused me. I went to him,
wrapping my arms around his head, still speechless and he clung
to me. I made soothing noises in the back of my throat and after
some time he quieted. Sniffling, with anguished eyes, he looked
up to me and confessed.
his undying love and devotion to our child and me. He gushed about
his weakness and the weakness of the flesh. He begged, he pleaded,
and once again he cried. It changed nothing. He had committed
adultery. Sitting naked before me, after making love to me, he
confessed. He did not want me. His lovely worship session had
been nothing but guilt.
was final six months after that day. That was also the day that
my doctor informed me that I had syphilis. I felt the needle enter
my skin and I cried. It was one pain of many added to the other
pains and indignities I had suffered that day. At least this sting
would bring with it the miracle cure of penicillin. Would that
all my hurts could be so easily mended.
He never knew,
I don’t think. Not until it was to late at least. By the
time he found out, the disease had already eaten away his brain
like a moth in a second hand clothing store. There was nothing
left to the man I loved. But somewhere in the back of his rot-riddled
brain he remembered me, requested me, and I came. Like I fool,
I came to see the mad man who was once my husband, who was once
the center of my world. I still love him. Dying and decayed as
he was from one night’s debauchery and lechery, I still
love him. Aye, and there’s the rub.
is what hurts the most, that I still love this man who brought
all this pain and suffering on us both. He was the cause of our
misfortunes and yet I pity him and find room in my soul for the
unconditional love that I promised him twenty years before. I
cannot forget the last time he touched me and my fingertips itch
to return the favor. I cannot... Now I hurt myself, knowing that
I still want him, knowing that I still love a madman.
resides in the Metroplex area with her husband and pets. She writes
to retain sanity and to satisfy her vanity. She has been previously
published in several e-zines, including Mind Caviar, Ophelia’s
Muse, and Clean Sheets. Current projects include learning to knit
and a short story collection. Futher information may be found
at her Website: www.amberhipple.com
© 2004 by Amber Hipple
All rights reserved.