Sometimes, just the thought of her can sustain me. Vivid memories of days and nights spent together can keep me going through the drudgery that has become my life. Emptying the drier isnít a chore if I think about her smile. Cleaning up after dinner flies by when I close my eyes and imagine standing close to her, floating away on the scent of lavender.
Sometimes, itís enough to see her. She could be driving by in her car. Or she might be out in her garden, working on her prized azaleas. Simply seeing her walk to the mailbox brightens my whole day, especially if she lifts her hand to wave to me. Sometimes seeing her hurts. When sheís with him. Sheís so perfect, that associating her with the ugly emotion of jealousy almost seems sacrilegious. But I canít help it.
Sometimes, I need to speak to her. At poker, Iíll sit next to her and initiate a conversation so that sheís focused solely on me. Her voice soothes me and I get lost in her eyes. Some evenings Iíll go to her house. Weíll drink coffee, or wine. We laugh and whisper and become silly little girls. I never see her this way with anyone else and it warms me to know that. And I go home all the more sad for it. Sad that I canít be with her all the time. Sad that I canít feel the same way for my husband.
Sometimes, I simply must touch her. I lightly brush her arm as we sit side by side on Susanís bench. I wipe non-existent lint from her sweater. I meld the length of my body up against hers in her laundry room when her husband is upstairs. I press my lips against the pulse point in her neck as she moans and begs me not to stop. I run my tongue along her jaw, tasting tears, unsure if Iíve caused them. I bury my face in her shoulder, hidden away from the world by a curtain of copper.
Sometimes, I have to have her. In her bed, on expensive sheets. My hands map the contours of her body as she writhes beneath me. My eyes drink in the sight of her, free and uninhibited. I worship every inch of her with my mouth, my lips, my tongue. I revel in the sounds she makes, unintelligible, raw, needy. And when she lets go, I know she is mine.
Sometimes itís enough.
And sometimes itís not.
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