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I remember the way Laura’s laughter filled our home; how her touch felt like electricity coursing through my veins. I remember the passion we shared, our bodies entwined beneath the sheets, finding solace in each other’s embrace.
“Oh, you feel amazing,” I’d whispered to her that night, feeling the heat of her body pressed against mine as I moved within her. Her moans were like music to my ears, and I reveled in the sensation of her nails digging into my back as she clung to me.
“Brian…don’t stop,” she’d gasped, her breath hot against my ear.
As our bodies moved together in perfect harmony, I knew that I’d found something precious—a love that could heal even the deepest wounds; a light that could chase away the darkest shadows.
“Stay with me, Laura,” I’d begged her that night, holding her close as our hearts beat as one.
“Always,” she’d whispered, sealing the promise with a tender kiss.
The scent of her perfume lingers in my mind, a blend of jasmine and vanilla that always felt so comforting and familiar. The memory threatens to pull away from me, but I force myself to focus. I can see her in the room with me—the dim lighting casting shadows across her soft skin as rain taps rhythmically against the window.
The ice cubes clink as I pour another generous helping of whiskey into my glass. The rich, autumn-sunset-hues of the whiskey swirl and dance in front of my eyes, and the chill from the ice seeps through the glass, numbing my fingertips.
“Yeah, I need this,” I mutter under my breath, bringing the glass to my lips and taking a slow sip. The smoky flavor of the single malt combines with the cold crispness of the ice, washing away the bitterness that seems to have taken permanent residence in my heart.
Laura’s body had been ethereal that evening; her curves accentuated by the flickering candlelight. Her deep brown eyes had locked onto mine, filled with love and trust. As I slowly undressed her, she had gasped softly when the cool air kissed her naked flesh, making her nipples harden almost instantly. The sight of her bare breasts had always left me breathless—perfect handfuls begging for my touch.
My mind won’t let go of the memory, of how Laura’s wetness had welcomed me eagerly, her pussy tight and warm around me as we moved together in a dance of passion and longing.
The memory of Laura’s moans echo through the room, and the sound of rain outside creates a symphony of desire and loss. My heart aches, mourning the love that slipped through my fingers like sand. I can almost feel her delicate fingers gliding across my chest, tracing patterns on my skin as we lay tangled in bed. The soft, gray light of the room encourages me to drift between memory and reality, and the flashback intensifies. I see Laura’s face so clearly, it’s as if she’s right there with me. She gazes up at me, her eyes pools of vulnerability and trust as I slowly explore her beautiful body with my eager gaze. I remember how her pussy felt, so warm and wet, gripping me tightly as I slid inside her. I imagine the smell of her neck and the soft, smooth skin behind her ear.
A glance down at my hand reveals my wedding ring, still gleaming despite the years that have passed since Laura placed it there. The sight of it is like a punch to the gut. It’s a stark reminder of all that I’ve lost. As the weight of that reality settles in, I remember that the night in my memories was the last time Laura and I made love. The last time we will ever make love. That memory is all I have now.
I feel a wave of anguish burn through me, making it difficult to breathe. My chest tightens and I feel like I’m drowning in regret and sorrow. Only I know how close I am to breaking. The grief nips at the edges of my consciousness, a persistent reminder of the love we shared and the life that slipped away from me. With each passing moment, the tension within me grows, building like a storm about to break.
I feel that survivor’s guilt again, as I remember the feel of her body pressed against mine, her soft moans filling the air. The echo of our laughter and whispered promises reverberates through my mind, a bitter reminder of what could have been.
I start to feel dizzy. “Son of a…” I mutter under my breath, clenching my fists tightly. I’ve been feeling dizzy a lot recently. I stand but fall back on the chair. My chest is now hurting. I clutch at it, taking deep breaths. It feels like a heart attack. The world around me becomes narrow and dark.
I pick up the phone. “Melinda,” I say. “Call an ambulance.”
Chapter two
Pork Chop
Tanya
I walk into the gym, and the familiar scent of sweat and machinery greets me like an old friend. Luckily, most of the usual crowd has already cleared out for the evening, leaving the weight room blissfully empty. Perfect. I need to blow off some steam after the day I’ve had. As I walk to the weight rack in the back corner, I’m acutely aware of the eyes following my every move; men pause in the middle of their workouts to stare, not even bothering to hide their interest. I feel my cheeks burning. The attention I get now might be different from that I got in the past, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I still feel like that overweight little girl, staring at her reflection in the mirror and wondering why she couldn’t look like the other girls.
Nowadays, I get plenty of compliments, but I don’t believe them. I still think someone’s playing a joke on me. I’m haunted by memories of prom—Marcus, my crush, asked me out. I said yes, of course, but he never showed up. I went anyway, thinking there must have been a miscommunication. When I arrived, there he was, with the cheerleading captain.
“Pork Chop,” he’d said, “you didn’t think I’d asked you out for real, did you?”
Screw him.
Shaking off the unpleasant memories, I grab some weights and move them to the squat rack. It’s time to focus on my workout. I load them onto the bar and slide under it, settling it across the back of my shoulders. Breathe in, breathe out. I bend my knees and lower into a squat, going deeper than I usually do. The weight presses down on me, straining my muscles. I push back up to the starting position, as sweat beads on my forehead. With a grunt, I bend my knees and lower into the next rep. The weight strains my thighs, but it’s a good pain. The ache helps quiet my mind, dulling the sharp edges of unpleasant memories.
Pork Chop. The taunt echoes through my head as I straighten, pushing back to standing. I grit my teeth against the unwelcome voice and drop into another squat. You’ll never be anything but a fat pig. No one will ever want you. The barbell creaks as I bear its weight and sweat trickles down my neck. I know the voice isn’t real, but it doesn’t make its poisonous words hurt any less.
Growing up, I often wondered, had I grown up somewhere else, would I still have been teased the way I was here? After all, we all grew up in a town with scantily-clad, modelesque women with sun-bathed skin, tight abs, and tall figures. Maybe if I and everyone else I went to school with weren’t surrounded by some of the most beautiful people in the world, things would have turned out differently.
But there is no point in dwelling on the what-ifs. I was a chubby girl in Naples, Florida. And that was that.
I stand, catching my breath before continuing. Let the pain flow through you. Feel it, then let it go.
One. I repeat the motion, slower this time, focussing hard on my form. Two. Burning pain shoots through my thighs as I sink into the bottom of the squat. Three. I straighten back up, my heart pounding. I take another moment to catch my breath and add more weight to the barbell. I’m here to push myself, after all.
