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One hour before he arrives, I climb up to the attic and dig through five boxes of summer things until I find the dress that he gave me for my birthday, six months ago. It is the pink linen one with one-inch slits on the sides and I put it on, twirl in front of the mirror, happy with the way it hugs me now. I smile to myself because the goddamn thing was two sizes too small when he bought it and even though I never told him it didn't fit?and he never noticed that I never wore it -- I thought of it as an incentive to shed that extra weight after he left. Now, I stand here, the new me in the dress that I know will change his mind, wearing no bra and stringy underwear and just the right mixture of scents that will bring him to his knees. I wonder what it is exactly that is making me so damned nervous about seeing my own husband. And will he even care? Will he be different from the way he was when he walked out? Will he suddenly become that person that recognizes a new haircut, new furniture or a new fragrance? Will he fall into my arms and tell me that he has forgotten her? Will he come home? Maybe he will notice tonight. Maybe he will see me minus the forty pounds I collected last year, after I lost the baby and he lost his job, and all I could think to do was eat. Maybe he will forget that I turned my back to him instead of accepting his embrace. Maybe he will not remember that instead of kissing him I scolded him for not being the man I needed him to be. I will not be that woman tonight. I will not ask when he last visited his mother. I will not mention that she still calls at six-thirty every morning or that I no longer bother explaining to her that he left four months ago, that he found someone younger, prettier, someone with more boom, and now he’s gone. I will not tell him that even though she is in her third year of Alzheimer’s, she would probably still dance a fucking jig at the news. I won’t do that. I won’t. Instead, I will tell him that I bought new sheets for the bed and that I can’t wait to feel how they will stretch and pull with him tangled inside them with me. I will tell him about the many nights that I placed my hand between my legs and pushed my finger in and out, my pussy becoming slick, how I imagined him watching, wanting to take over. I will tell him that I called his name when I was alone, in the dark, coming all over those three hundred dollar sheets -- even when I was mad as hell after I saw him with HER that day. I hear him. I feel him, and I want to wait for him to knock three or four times before I run to the door all out of breath. I want to stand at the peephole and sing, “Who is it?” like it’s done in all of my favorite TV shows, like I don’t know it’s him. Like I hadn’t run from the hall mirror to the front window a thousand times whenever I heard a car driving by. But I don’t do that. I stand right next to the door to await his knock when I hear his shoes slide onto and back and forth across the welcome mat. I can see his chest through the peephole, the first three buttons of his shirt undone, a tuft of soft brown hair exposed on his reddish brown chest. I inhale deeply as if I can smell him too, but it’s only the aroma of the jerk chicken in the kitchen that I smell. My palms are sweaty and they slide off the doorknob as I twist and open the door just enough so that he has to slide past me and get close to my breasts and he smiles at the way I place my hand precisely where I want him to look. His slacks hang at his waist. His generous paunch is almost transparent now. I let him walk in front of me and I trip over the stupid runner he made me put down when the carpet was brand new. He has shaved his head, finally letting go of the reddish brown hair that had only grown in spots for the past two years. I decide that the look becomes him though, and I begin to wonder if growth spurts stop at a certain age, or if it’s possible that he has grown another inch or two since he turned forty-one. I realize that I am spending a lot of time checking him out and not nearly enough time getting him to check me out, so, I reach up, throw my arms around his neck and squeeze real tight. My breasts rest on his chest and I feel it rise and fall, rise and fall with the rapid increase of his heartbeat. He pushes me back, holding my wrists with two fingers like he’s allergic to me. “Well, I’m glad you could make it, anyway,” I say, and I immediately feel stupid for doing this, for acting as if I invited him over for tea and crumpets or something, like he had to come through a blizzard to get here. “I told you I was coming,” he says, slow and easy, his hand going into his pocket and lifting so that the cuffs of his pants rise and fall. The front of his pants show the print where his dick rests in his briefs. I smile. I feel foolish. I say, “That you did, Thomas; that you did.” I want to kiss him and walk with him into the kitchen and let him taste his favorite dish, the one he hasn’t had since we put his mother away, the one I always refused to cook because all those spices weren’t good for us. But I figure if he’s hungry enough, he’ll ask. I decide that maybe he stopped and got something on the way, because I know damned well SHE didn't cook for him. Instead of being straight forward and touching him in all the spots that will make his mouth hang open, his hands go limp at his sides, and his dick erupt in his pants, I go over to the bar and pour myself a drink. “What will you have?” I ask, holding up my glass of vodka on the rocks. I cross my legs so that my thighs show just so. His eyes move from my knees to my calves then back up again. “I won’t be having anything,” he says still watching my legs. Then he glances at his watch, the one I bought him for our sixth anniversary. “Too early.” I wonder if he is trying to make me feel guilty or trying to avoid slipping into submission. He shifts uncomfortably, and I wonder if I’ve caused him to stiffen and lengthen in his pants. He comes and stands next to my stool and when his pants brush my bare legs, I feel the hair on my arms, on my back and between my legs stand on end. I cross and uncross my legs and sip. He rubs his head with one hand, the other still in his pocket, his keys jiggling with each movement of his hand. It becomes obvious to me that he doesn’t know what to do with himself and this is when I feel the urge to touch his hairless arms and rub. “How have you been?” I ask, my eyebrows arched as if I’m very interested in the answer he will give me. He backs up just enough to force my hand to drop at my side. I suddenly feel very awkward sitting there like that. I lick my lips, rub my thigh, lift my glass, and sip. “I’ve been well," he says. "Working again. Still welding, but I’m supervising twelve now.” He looks happy, content?not at all like he was when he was here, with me. “Good, that's good," I say. "I was wondering when you could find the time to get over here and talk.” I clear my throat, move my knees to allow him to fill the empty stool beside me once his legs have weakened. He rubs his chin, the coarse hair there crackling with the motion. “Then I guess you were hoping to talk tonight instead of getting my things ready.” I don’t know how to take this so I swallow hard. “Yes, I did want to talk but I didn’t purposely not pack your things. I mean I was busy--“ “Like painting your toenails or shopping or something, right?” “Something like that, yes, I guess so.” I don’t like that he doesn’t see the change in me, that he thinks I’m the same woman who pushed him into the arms of someone else. “Sure you don’t want a drink?” I ask again. “No, just my things will be fine.” He is not even smiling anymore. He looks fidgety and impatient, glancing around the room to make sure I didn’t do just what he thinks I hadn’t done. “Well then, I’ll get them,” I say and jump down from the stool taking care not to pull my dress down over my ass, but I immediately want to know what his rush is. I want to know how his day went. I want to know when he became so calm and his days became so uncomplicated that he no longer needed a nightcap to relax. Or maybe he just didn’t need one from me. Maybe SHE will help him with that once he is back home with HER. He stretches his hands high above his head, his shirt pulling from inside his pants exposing his stomach. “Thanks,” he says. Well, fuck you, I say to myself. I gather from closets, drawers, and the attic, anything that might be something of his and stuff them into two duffel bags wrinkled and unfolded just the way he knows me to do it, since I wouldn’t want to disappoint him by showing him how neat I can be now. I let the bags drop from my hands right next to his feet where he stands near the door, the small bag landing on top of the larger one. I see relief pass over his face. This expression does nothing for my attitude, so I stare at the light spots in the paint where pictures of he and I used to hang before I snatched them down after he left that night. I go to the cabinet where they are hidden and stuff them into the side pocket of one of his bags. I am sure they are just the house-warming gift SHE would need. But he bends over and removes them, sets them neatly to the side. “You know I’m not a picture person,” he says. “They’ll probably just end up packed away somewhere.” SHE would pack your ass up if SHE saw them, I think, but don't say. "I guess I can find something to do with them," I say instead. He laughs, scratches his head nervously. I can’t believe he still won’t admit to her, that he is still trying to convince me that it was something else that made him leave. I wonder if he is this way with her, coy and ignorant when it comes to talking about me. I wonder if he touches her where the curve of her belly rises and falls. I wonder if he accidentally calls her by my name when she wraps him in her thighs, tongues him lightly on the ear, inserts a finger in his ass. He bends over the bags again, to inspect, I assume. He makes sure they are zipped, then steps close to me. I am swallowing tears and holding my hands in tight fists so that I don’t pull nervously at my dress. He lifts my chin with his forefinger and I turn my head, forcing his hand to fall after letting it linger there a second too long, because now I am feeling a tingle in my legs moving rapidly up my thighs. "It's going to be okay, you know," he says, "the divorce." He rubs my cheek. I don’t know what makes him think he has that right, that I want him touching me now that he has come here and been so fucking cold. "I know it will," I say. "It's just paper. Nothing for me to go crazy over." I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands and start fumbling with my dress since he is obviously not staying for dinner, a movie or even a warm handshake. I am frustrated. I turn around, exhale and ask, “Will you unzip me please?” I try not to look at him with the hope that I know still lingers in my eyes. He looks up, surprised. “I kind of need to get going and I need you to carry one of these for me.” He points to the bags that we know he is perfectly capable of carrying on his own. “Fine," I say. "Just pull the zipper down a little so I don’t have to fight with it later. You can do that for me, can’t you?” He has no answer. He just steps close to my back, grabs hold of the zipper and pulls it with one swift downward motion. “There,” he mumbles, and drops his hands to his sides and backs away as if he has just touched something that has burned him. I wonder if I should be offended, but suddenly, I am altogether smug. It is obvious that he is still afraid of my power. He leans against the counter and reaches into the silver bucket that holds the chilled bottle of unopened champagne and scoops out a block of ice. He tosses it into his mouth and crunches with such force that my own teeth hurt. He shakes the excess water from his fingers into my face smiling playfully. I laugh, but as I step away from him, I am pissed that I am doing everything I said I would never do again. When I slip into my strapless blocked sandals to walk him out, I feel like kicking the shit out of myself. I walk in front of him carrying the smaller of the two bags. My strides are long and swift. For once, I am not worried about tripping over my own two feet and looking foolish in front of him. It doesn't matter to me now that I feel I have already done everything possible to make myself the fool in this situation. I stand with my arms folded across my chest as he loads his bags into the immaculate trunk and slams it closed. I don’t want him to go. I want him to unpack his things and fold them neatly and place them back inside the bottom two drawers in our dresser. I want him to take his shoes off and slide them in the closet next to mine and leave today’s work clothes in a dirty heap on his side of the bed. I want him to climb into bed beside me, take my book from my hands and cover my mouth with his strangely soft lips before I can object. He fumbles with his keys. I am making him nervous. He opens the door on the passenger's side, sits on the seat with one leg in and one leg out and turns the ignition just enough to start the radio. It plays something that I remember vaguely but can't quite recall the name of. It seems especially sad to me right now. "I guess you need to go now," I say, my head down, my foot bending back and forth at the ankle. "I guess," he agrees. He sighs, hoists himself up off the seat and leans against the back door. The fresh bronze paint matches his eyes. I can tell even in the dark. He cocks his head and looks at me sort of sideways and I instinctively think of the first time he looked at me that way, when I offered to go down on him while he drove me home from our first date. I wouldn’t bring my face near his dick now, though, not even if he begged me. I rub my palms on my dress, and force one leg in front of the other. My heels go click-clack against the pavement. “You can just sign the papers and send them back to me,” I say not looking at him. I can’t look at him or I will find myself searching for some hint of affection in his eyes. “I’ll do that,” he says softly. He drums a silent rhythm on his pants. Then he steps forward and grabs me by my wrists to pull me between his legs. I forget what it was I wanted to say next and it doesn't really matter since I am concentrating on whether to pull away or let him do whatever it is he plans to do next. He lets his hands slide from my wrists down my arms to my breasts. “What are you doing?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry. “Touching you,” he says, rubbing my nipples through the thin material of my dress. "Getting the last of my things and leaving." I pull slightly against him. “Then go. Go back to HER. I don't need you to fuck me so that I can go inside and pretend that it means something that it doesn't." “What does it ever mean," he asks. "When I was here?did it mean something then? What's so different now? We're just bodies, that's all we are." His hands fall from my breasts to my waist, squeezing there. He pulls me close to his crotch. He swells against me and my wetness presses against him. “I don’t want to play these games, Thomas. I don't give a fuck about bodies, spirits, whatever. You wanted a divorce. Have your divorce and leave me the fuck alone.” But I don't pull away when he caresses my ass. I become my body. I am inside myself looking out at him. His fingers travel the length of my skirt and lift it casually, searching my thighs. He finds my panties and pushes them aside. The air hits the bare folds of my pussy and I want to shiver. And I want to sit still and take it. His finger slips inside me. My legs tremble against the car. They threaten to give way, force me to fall against him. My hands grip the hood and he lifts me effortlessly and places me onto it. The engine is warm beneath my ass, which reminds me how little time it took him to walk into my space, gather the miscellaneous pieces of himself and prepare to leave again. He hears my whimpering. "But we are just bodies," he says. "It doesn't matter that I am leaving.” He sucks on my neck and I feel drawn to him like a magnet. “You don’t want this, Thomas. I don’t want this. I want you to leave. Leave, if you don’t love me anymore.” And to myself, I sound foreign. “You don’t want me to leave,” he says. He steps into me and separates my knees with his own. He brings his finger to my mouth and pushes it between my lips. I suck it, swallowing the taste of myself. I am on the verge of sobbing. His own lips linger very close to my neck. I feel their moisture and I shift, not wanting him to accidentally taste the saltiness of my perspiration. I feel his breath on my ear. “I love your hair,” he says. “I know that you did it for me.” “I didn’t do a goddamn thing for you,” I say. I try to be forceful and convincing, but I don’t believe it myself. I turn my head slightly to meet his kiss. His tongue is sweet and sour like he just chewed my least favorite piece of candy. Tonight it tastes good on him. I reach down to fumble with his belt knowing that I have never been able to get it off of him in a reasonable amount of time, knowing that nothing will be different now. He helps me. He loosens it just enough to get to the button and zipper and I do away with them both and rub him through his briefs that are now wet in the front. I feel his stiffness, slip my hand inside and pull against the length of it. Between my thighs, I am wetter yet. This is not my planned reaction. I am not supposed to feel vulnerable and afraid and as if this is my final act of desperation and if I don’t have him right here, right now I will go completely insane. He lifts the skirt of my dress, careful not to tear it at the slits. He pulls my legs around his to camouflage my nakedness from Ms. Bessie from across the street. She is out on the porch with her new toy poodle. His dick rests in my lap and as I look down at it, as if I've never seen it before. It lays long and beautiful and brown, throbbing with need. I cover it with my hand, and follow the veins with the pads of my fingertips. I am tracing the map of the beginning and end of our marriage. Ms. Bessie waves, smiling, probably assuming he has just returned from another business trip. When she asks tomorrow morning as I am on my way to work, I will not tell her differently. She will think it is sweet that we are embracing each other on top of his car like newlyweds instead of a couple of seven and a half years fucking the last of the of their marriage out of themselves. He slips his cock inside of me. He does this without kissing me, without looking at me. I touch his head at the temples. I try to feel his pulse, rapid with need for me. I consider offering him a condom as he slides forward and back?our quest to resurrect the baby that couldn't be ended quite some time ago -- but I am sure I won’t be able to hear myself over the sound of our bodies merging. The car moves with our rhythm. My dress causes me to shift slightly and slide toward him, closer to where he is dancing inside me. He feels familiar yet new. From any angle but our own, as my legs bounce against his lower back and thighs, I am sure we appear to be lovers who don’t want to break free of these last joined moments. To the guy hiding behind the bushes watching my head thrown back, hearing my husband’s short, quiet grunts, we are lovers who can't get enough of each other. To Ms. Bessie across the street, we are deep in the throes of passion and simply cannot make it inside. This is what it looks like from the outside. But he slides out and steps away, his hands gripping his dick, wet with me. He is pulling at it ferociously, backward and forward until he purses his lips together and groans something that sounds like, umph while he indifferently jabs two fingers in and out of me. I feel like I am suspended in mid air. The hot wetness of his seed slides down my leg, drips onto the tire. I am afraid to look down. I am afraid to pull my dress back down and go upstairs while I still have some dignity, so I sit there while he lifts me a little and slaps me on my ass, handing me his handkerchief so that I can wipe the remains of our marriage from my legs. I hop down from the car, my underwear caught in the folds of my pussy and I jerk the soft material away from my body. I decide right then that I want the truck. He can keep the car and he can wash and wax the place where the print of my ass remains and remember who it was he fucked on a warm Tuesday night like she was the last free woman on earth. I decide that I will pay two hundred dollars for that hideous looking dress for his goddamn sister's wedding because I'm the only one who can wear it and make it look like something. I walk away from him like I am strong, like I am only that body that he sucked free of life, that he sucked free of love. I wave goodbye from the top of the steps with one hand on the doorknob. I blow him a kiss; I think, fuck what it looks like from the outside, this is the way it is. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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