So Much More(31)

Warm breath against skin, exhaled on a patient pause between kisses below an ear, elicits a shiver.

A shifting of stance tucks one leg between two, the two hug it in return.

The initiation of a kiss, soft and tentative, is welcomed by parted lips.

A shirt removed is reciprocated with the shedding of the other.

Touch for touch.

Kiss for kiss.

Heart for heart.

Trust for trust.

It’s all traded until the line I drew in my mind earlier is approached, if not mildly crossed already. I don’t retreat, but I don’t take it any further. She doesn’t push it either and seems perfectly content to continue the conversation without the introduction of sex.

Even when we move to the couch and she sits on my lap straddling me, all of the conversation happens from the waist up. The pace and intensity vary like the waves of the ocean I love to watch. Some swells are low, no break, just a gentle ease. And some swells are high, all whitecaps, intensely crashing in with passionate frenzy. The ebb and flow is so natural that I obey every instinct without hesitation. Hesitation requires doubt or uncertainty, neither of which are possible when I’m touching Faith.

An easy hour passes, and as it does our bodies begin to meld with each other as the blissful, satisfying blanket of exhaustion envelopes us. Slowly, so slowly, we’re pulled under until her head is resting on my shoulder, my head tilted, her forehead against my neck, our torsos contently accepting each other’s touch as the precursor to a final hug. And the last thing I hear before we both fall asleep, is a whisper, “So much more.” It sounds like an appeal to my soul.





Botox, overcoats, and destiny





past





Seamus goes through ups and downs with his MS. It appears to subside and then returns in a furious, vicious, illogical circle. Not that I’m a supporter; I bear witness to the struggle when I’m home, which isn’t often. The feeling returned in his legs but was replaced by pain. He doesn’t complain, but I see how it affects him when he moves, when he walks. His gait isn’t fluid, there’s tenderness and a tentativeness that gives him away. It’s unattractive. I know that sounds callous, but even though his face still looks like a goddamn model, I can’t get past the incompleteness I know exists physically.

For the year after Kira was born, I turned to Seamus because Loren backed away from me sexually. I ignored the lack of attraction because in the darkness of our bedroom his performance was never lacking. I could have sex with Seamus and think of Loren.

That didn’t last. After months of wallowing, I took charge; Botox and a personal trainer have me looking better than ever, and when I show up at Loren’s front door wearing only an overcoat, he wastes no time in stripping me of it and taking me right there in harsh form up against the wall of his foyer.

I stay two days. I think the news that I’m sterile turns him on. His appetite is insatiable like he’s been starving for a meal only I can serve up for months. I’m on my way, my destiny back on track.

I throw up another middle finger to the universe as I pull away from his estate in a taxi. I’ll be back to stay someday. With a new last name. Or I’ll go down in flames trying.





Blackmail sounds so harsh





past





I’m thirty-three years old.

I’m successful beyond belief career-wise. I’m vice president of a tech company that’s increased its profits tenfold the past several years—all thanks to my direction and leadership. My reputation in the industry precedes me. I’ve constructed it with precision, an intricate master plan at work: money, titles, power.

I am fearless.

But more than that—I am feared.

My grandmother would be so proud.

The money is rolling in. My salary is exorbitant, though I always lobby for my next raise. I stash it all away in bank accounts and investments that Seamus doesn’t, and will never, know about. My day is coming, and when it does he’ll be sorry he was stupid enough to sign the prenup I insisted on all those years ago, stating that all of my future earnings would remain with me should there ever come a time we should split. Let him keep his measly forty grand a year. That shit’s gone the minute it goes into his account anyway, spent on utilities and food and insurance and his meager car payment and whatever the kids need. The thing about Seamus is, he’ll probably be okay when he’s living hand to mouth someday. Money doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s all about the kids, and helping people. Fool.

Despite my successes, I’m at a stalemate.

I’m still with Seamus. Still with the kids. The fa?ade intact.

I’m so f*cking tired of the fa?ade.

I thought the fa?ade would sustain me. A good husband, two point five kids, and a white picket fence looks good. It’s the layer that society expects and grants you merit points based upon. Merit points, even fictitious ones, offset my ruthlessness. Even if people think I’m a bitch, they’ll say, “Oh, but her husband and children are lovely, she can’t be that bad.” It balances me out. And it worked until my eyes were opened to bigger and better. My destiny, it’s the fa?ade on steroids. Remove goodness and insert excess. Excess, what a magnificent word.

I need my destiny.

It’s long overdue.