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"And you went to the hospital to see her?"
"Hmmm,"
"Alright."
"Touch me."
When I say it, my stomach folds in shame. My emotions are conflicting. One moment, I am drowning in despair, the next moment, I am craving for peace and warmth, then another moment all I need is sexual satisfaction to make me feel right.
Or maybe I am simply trying to force a routine once again. Trying to find a constant excuse to numb the pain that rises in my heart.
Paul doesn't complain. He sets about fondling my breasts with his large hands. Unlike Mike, he likes to talk when we have sex. He expresses himself without any form of restraint. He gets me wet with just a single touch. We are a better match when it comes to mating, except that I always find my heart dissociating from the feeling my body gets.
"Take off your shirt," he commands. Usually, he rips it off violently without even caring about how stressful it will be for me to afford a new one. "I'll get you another one tomorrow," he'd always say, and he would end up bringing me a cheap dress from the market. I don't really mind.I like the way he rips off my clothes like an animal.He cradles my body and places me above him. I almost fall over; I like to be beneath him. To surrender to his every touch, but Paul prefers me on top. I know this even though he has not once complained.
"Just tonight. Let me watch you."
My lashes lower in obedience, and I begin to undress. Fingering each button for a long time before popping it open. He takes a sharp intake of breath at every revelation of my skin.
When the shirt is off, he lifts me on his lap and takes off the rest of our clothing.
I thought he wanted a slow burn. I must have gotten it all wrong again.
When I am naked, he begins to pump his erection in his hands while he looks at me straddling his lap. He likes to watch me while he pleasures himself. Then, when the veins pop out on the skin of his cock, he lifts me and sheaths himself in me.
I cry out on the impact. I wasn't even ready to accept him yet. And with me above him, he feels bigger than usual.
"Oh, I am sorry. I am sorry, Emily. I simply can't resist you."
He pulls away and spins us so that I am lying beneath him. He begins to caress my skin while he apologizes. Soon we are holding onto each other in the throes of passion. The fear disappears, worry fades away, and I focus on the feeling of our bodies becoming one. When his fingers graze my clit in that wayhe knows I like, I come undone below him, tightening my walls around his length, and he lets go with a loud groan that scares the lazy cat by the door.
Then it's over.
I am sated, reborn, ready to live again. But it never lasts, the emptiness will return by morning.
I have a memory of three years ago, in an alley. In this memory, the scent of earth, musk and tobacco wafts in the air. Strong hands hold me, and fingers brush my hair. There is chocolate cake on the ground which should look tasty, but it has been ruined; it is mixed with sand and stone. The body behind me leans in and whispers something in my ear, but all I hear is, "Look around you. This place is gone."
I circled through the stages of grief, and I am currently experiencing acceptance. But does acceptance mean that I have little reaction to anything or a lack of enthusiasm for everything?
Paul and I are sitting on the single leather chair he managed to get from a yard sale last weekend.
We are eating cheese balls when I see the message in my mailbox.
I am naked. He is naked. The cat is wagging her tail on his lap.
The general picture is melancholic, dull, and very boring.
"What does it say?" he asks, rubbing the side of my arm. I lean into him, clicking on the icon. My eyes widen. I almost sprint from Paul's laps. "It's an invitation for an interview to be a cook for some residence."
"Shit!" Paul says excited, kicking the cat in the process. She yelps as usual and hurries to hide under the bed.
Poor thing.
I am reading through the words quickly to be certain that the mail has been truly addressed to me. It's Maya's laptop anyway, and since I started using it, she has been receiving occasional messages from friends who are far away who wish to reach out to her in some way.
"Accept it. You should fucking accept it, Smith." He laughs.
He sounds like he is eager to get rid of me.Oh boy,I can't blame him. He must be tired of my emotional instability.
