CYCLES
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual
persons, places or events is coincidental.
Copyright 2004 Deborah Boyer
All rights reserved.
Barn Door Books
Friday
I feel suspiciously like a beefsteak tomato. Huge, fleshy, on the verge of rotten—about to burst through a too-thin skin. Yep, it's the time of the month when a woman whose period is no longer useful—I've had my kids, thank you very much—gets to rue its continued existence. Today is my third day in the trenches and I'm swollen from scalp to toes, bleeding like a stuck pig, irritable, bitchy—and horny as hell. Such a great combination. I can see it now: Cole comes home and I say “Do me, baby, but don't touch”.
I got the boys off to school and figured now was as good a time as any to clean out the crawlspace. A little solitude, you know? Keep my moody self to myself and accomplish something while I do. But procrastination goes with my sluggish, over-ripeness and I'm sitting here, poking through old pictures: baby pictures, wedding pictures and now, near the bottom of the box, dating pictures. Young love. Taken when we believed nothing would cool our passion. We were going to be the old couple who still holds hands. But here we are, going on twenty years and we're in a rut. A truck-stopping, crater-sized, frozen-slush-filled rut.
Things aren't bad, generally speaking, because we're still best friends. And we've had rocky years—everybody does—that's not the problem. Simply seems the last ten months or so, when it comes to sex, we can't get it right. Time is one problem; between the kids and housework and skiing and the vet practice, we're rarely both in the mood. Even when we eke out an evening alone, sex isn't very good. Like having your mouth all ready for prime rib and ending up at McDonald's—it fills the space, but it's flat and tasteless. Simply put, sex has gotten boring. Dull enough to be a chore. And lately, I think we both take any excuse to avoid it, even when we want it.
I say we because I'm not the only one who lacks enthusiasm. Take this morning, when Cole found out Bryce and Joel were going to a sleep over. He waggled his brows with obvious intent until I shook my head, motioned at the calendar and held up two fingers—two days until my period's done. He shrugged like it was no big deal and that was that.
But you know, looking at these pictures, I remember when it wouldn't have mattered. It didn't matter who was tired, who was indisposed, who had to get up early—sex was still exciting and delicious, and we'd come so hard we could barely breathe.
And once we caught our breath, we'd start over.
What's so different now? We don't get as creative as we did in the beginning. It used to be we were always looking for new ways to light the fire. But after so many years, there's not much left that's new, I guess...
Well, nothing I'd do anyway. I mean no extra people and no farm animals, thank you very much.
I snort at my own sarcasm and the dust gives me sneezes.
Wiping my nose, I laugh. At least I've cheered myself up a little. But seriously, I don't think there's something Cole wants that we haven't done, either. If there is, I wish he'd ask, or tell, or write it down because I would be on it like snow on the slopes! Maybe we're both out of ideas. Maybe we've reached some secret matrimonial stage where everybody discovers that, from this moment on, it's touch-by-numbers—and I'm really praying that's not the case.
Because I love him. I like him. All of him. Even as we get older, I still like the way he looks. So it's not a physical dissatisfaction I've heard other women complain about. I mean, sure, he's not the hardbody he once was—but I'm certainly not defying any gravitational barriers. And since he's still interested enough to watch me get undressed, I don't think he's bothered by that either.
We also talk less. Only because we don't need to. I used to get a charge from trying to figure out what he's thinking. But now—his eyes are so expressive they scream what he's feeling, I know exactly what's on his mind, and I'm hardly ever wrong. We know each other inside out, so why talk? We can have a whole conversation from opposite sides of a room—and there's something wonderful about that. We're comfortable, I guess. And I don't know what to do about it. But something has to give, or I'm going to strip naked and run screaming through snowdrifts just to numb this aching longing for something that's gone—and might not come back. Not like this. Not like the sex we were having when these beaming grins were snapped.
I touch our shiny faces, the colors faded and blurred. If this is what married sex is doomed to, no wonder old people don't seem to touch—they can't bear the reminder.
All right, enough of this, because now I'm completely depressed. Maybe coming up here wasn't such a good idea after all. My tomato body is begging for a pressure release and this isn't helping. One little orgasm and I'd feel a whole lot better. I could take off my pants, sit in that rocker and be playing with myself when Cole gets home for lunch. Not new, but maybe surprising.
My laughter is muffled by the boxes.
"Darla? Are you up there?"
I jump. Damn! Too late. It's lunchtime already.
"Yeah, hang on, I'm coming." I dump our smiles back into the box and clamber down the ladder, happy to see him—but he doesn't notice. He's sorting through the mail, tense shoulders saying he has a full afternoon of farm rounds to survive before he can relax—the animal world must be as cranky as I am today. Ah well, best laid plans. I touch his arm. "Soup, or just a sandwich?"
"A sandwich is fine."
I watch him while I slap together meat and bread. A slight frown over the electric bill, a smile at the silly postcard from Cindy. Comfortable, yes. And maybe it's not such a bad thing. He didn't used to care if he was late because we were screwing. I should start something right now, because looking at him standing there, still every inch the handsome man I married for better or worse, fills me with—
"You have to make the boys turn out the lights," a terse command. "The electric bill's twice as high as last year."
Well, I could've started something but he had to go and open his mouth. Impulse and desire evaporate and I'm defensive. "You're here, too, Cole—you tell them. I've told them until I'm blue in the face." Okay, so maybe I don't have to be so bitchy about it but in my current state, I'm not inclined to be the cheery little wife.
I feel him looking at my back. He's examining me like a patient, his deductive brain trying to work out what my pain is.
"Are you trying to start a fight?" he asks mildly.
He does know me as well as I know him. "I'm sorry," I say with a sigh, "I guess I am."
One of his many frustratingly endearing traits is his acceptance that there are times I can't control my moods. That he goes out of his way to avoid conflict once a month is really quite sweet—and horribly unsatisfying to Mother Nature's design.
He munches and reads the paper, effectively ignoring me. Enjoying its hour of hatless freedom, his hair stands up in clumps. I cross the room and smooth it down. I love the feel of it, thick and unruly. Why doesn’t running my hands through it make me want him anymore? Just playing with the chestnut stuff used to make me wet.
He smiles and kisses my hand.
~:~:~:~:~
Saturday
"Ooo, look—there he is." Lindsey turns to watch the new guy's progress across the taproom. He's a buff engineer-in-diapers, twenty-five if he's a day. The council hired him to help plan the new Town Hall.
"He is so damn fine—and so damn shy," Lindsay grouses. "I've tried to talk to him at least a dozen times and he keeps staring at the floor."
With a total population of three-hundred-and-seventy in Lancer, Pennsylvania, fresh blood always gives everybody something to talk about, and folks are still watching his every move, poor kid—although most of them for different reasons than my two friends
, mind you, but he's green enough for our stares to be unremarkable. A definite plus. The tavern's pretty crowded even for Saturday and there's nothing like a busy night at Bill's for generating rumors of unseemly behavior.
"Maybe he's the silent type," I say.
We watch him bend over to talk with Joshua Strickler.
"Who cares what type he is when he's got an ass like that," Carol observes.
"Mmm-hmm," I mutter thickly at the tight behind, "I'll take two scoops, please."
"Darla!" Lindsey giggles. "Hands off. Single women need only apply. Besides, he might be a two-scooper, but Cole's definitely a banana split—and don't even try to tell me his butt's not just as scrumptious."
"Anyway! You don't really think we come over to your house all the time just to see your sour puss, do you?" Carol asks with a huff.
"That's just it," I drawl in self-pity, "you're not seeing any more of Cole than I am most of the time."
"So stop doing his laundry." Carol shakes her head. "Cole is all that and twelve bags of chips, and always has been, you silly cow. Look at him," she points with her chin, "he's watching you watch the newbie—somebody's in trouble!"
I catch Cole's watchful blue stare and he gives me a melting, lopsided smile. He may have a six-pack in him but he's not stupid—and despite the girls' teasing, I'm not in trouble. Any more than he is when I catch him looking at Rachael in the post office. I shrug—the girls are right, he is a gorgeous treat for the eyes—and grin back. He shakes his head and returns to his conversation with the sheriff.
"Just because we're on a diet —" I start.
"Doesn't mean you can't look at the menu," Lindsey and Carol finish with a groan.
"Oh, puh-leze," I mutter, "at least you two can still order take out."
Lindsey snorts. "But we sure don't get the free delivery."
We've been friends since grade school—the three of us and Cindy. When we graduated, Cindy packed her bags and moved to California. Carol's been married and divorced—twice. Lindsey says she's got a smorgasbord here, since the town's predominantly male, and she's not about to settle for one. I'm lucky to have friends like them. In a place as small as Lancer, who you can and can't confide in can be dicey. At least I have two women I can tell anything and be sure it will go no further.
"Free maybe, but then it's not hot out of the oven, is it?" I sigh again. "As dull as things are, I have to get my jollies somewhere."
Carol wrinkles her nose. "Quit complaining. He'll come around, they always do. And if he doesn't, I volunteer to take him for a night." She raises her hand. "I'll slather him with toppings and send him home a new sundae."
I laugh. "I bet you would—probably pineapple because you know I hate it." I pull a sour face. "Nope, no deal. I'm not ready to share, I'm just frustrated."
"Stop feeling sorry for you," Lindsey scolds. "You simply need a chance of pace. Maybe you should drag him into the bathroom right now and give him a blow-job—that will perk things up. And then," she adds slyly, "Carol and I can sit out here and fantasize about what you're doing. We need our vicarious jollies, too."
"He's way too happy," I say, watching Cole fire down another mug, "which means it would take too long and I don't have an ounce of patience today."
"Oh, come on," Carol says, batting her lashes. "Do you mean to tell me you don't enjoy drunk-man sex?"
"Oh yeah," Lindsey chuckles, dropping into a pale male imitation, "'hang on, I don't know what's wrong, it just doesn't want to cooperate'."
We burst into girly giggles which draw curious looks from several other conversations.
"Uh-oh," Carol says breathlessly, "oh, that lovely, lovely man of yours—look!" The newcomer, Rory, is listening intently to Cole and casting furtive glances in our direction. "Cole better be telling him the hottest girls in town are sitting at this table. And you can tell him I said so, too, Darla."
"Since we're on the subject of ice cream," Lindsey muses, "I can't help wondering if he's a vanilla kind of guy, or chocolate."
Carol smacks her lips. "Rich, fudgy, spank-me-baby chocolate, I'll bet. You know those shy ones."
Rory nods and makes a beeline for us.
"God," Lindsey chokes, hastily setting her beer on the table and arranging her face in a neutral mask by the time he arrives.
"Hi."
My companions stare. I can tell they're trying not to snicker. "Hi." I raise my brows in question.
"Doc Gar—I mean Cole—said you—could you do some mending for me, Mrs. Garber?"
Lindsey pokes me with her foot and I'm tempted to laugh. "Sure," my smile is broad, "just bring it by and I'll see what I can do."
"Cool. Thanks."
Another nudge from Lindsey's boot prompts me to say, "Rory, have you met Lindsey and Carol?" I indicate my tablemates.
"Uh, yeah—hi." No, not much of a conversationalist, is he? I drown my urge to giggle with beer.
Carol isn't shy. "Hi. I saw you at the slopes the other day with the men's team. You were giving the kids pointers."
"Yeah, I'm sorta helping Cole out with the little ones."
"That's great. I look forward to seeing more of your pole action," she continues, ignoring the pointed look from Lindsey.
"Uh..."
"What she means," Lindsey corrects, "is we're looking forward to you working our slopes along with the other guys."
It's all I can do not to laugh and Lindsey quickly takes a drink, pretending not to notice her Freudian slip.
Unfortunately, Rory didn't miss it. The man is coloring, the blush creeping over his ears. "I haven't skied regular in a couple years, so we'll see if I'm still any good."
"You'll do fine," I use my soothing mother tone, "and Cole really appreciates your help with the Junior Team. This year's bunch is a little rambunctious, so it's tough for one man to keep them corralled."
Rory nods, fidgets, wants to be elsewhere. "Thanks, Mrs. Garber. I'll bring my stuff over tomorrow."
"That will be fine, but make it in the afternoon, please? And if you're going to call him Cole, I'm Darla."
"Okay, Darla. Uh, see ya." He nods at Lindsey and Carol before fleeing like his feet are winged.
"I hope he moves half as fast on the mountain," Carol says wryly.
~:~:~:~:~
Sunday
The boys are building a snow fort. They're so mature these days but is any male ever too old to play? Bryce wants to go to college, so it won't be long before he's gone, and Joel will follow in the blink of an eye. They might come back, like we did, but they won't be my babies any more. I used to look forward to the day when the house will be mine and Cole's again. We used to lie in bed and talk about what it will be like, how we can do it on the kitchen table if we want to.
Strong arms circle my waist and Cole's warmth surrounds me. He smells so good; fresh air, damp wool, sun block, and the cinnamony aftershave I gave him at Christmas.
"Wha'cha doing?" The intimate whisper makes me glow.
"Watching them grow an inch every second." I clear fog from the window.
He nuzzles my ear. "We're going to need a new table soon, aren't we?"
Reading my mind like that makes my heart swell. A fluttering desire fills my stomach. I need him—now. "Well," I say playfully, turning into the embrace, "the table's clear and they're totally occupied. Do you want to test its durability?"
"Is your period—over?"
The doctor in him always thinks of those things. "Enough, yes." I feel almost panicked, desperate to hold onto wanting him. I tug his winter beard, nuzzle his freshly-shaven neck, nibble his chin and kiss the soft mouth hiding in the thatch.
"Would it be cruel if we locked the door?" he asks against my lips. Pressed into my belly, I know he's more than willing to carry through with this.
"Don't, we'll hear them the second they hit the mud room." I fumble under the bulky sweater, search for his fly. I can't let him walk away because desire could dissolve as quickly as it arrived. Finding the heat of his stomach, I sl
ip my hand under the waistband of his jeans—roomy enough to cover two layers of thermals, there's plenty of space to stroke him.
"Mmm," he groans as I squeeze, quickening the moisture which springs between my legs.
I lean into his broad chest, absorb the rising lust. Breathlessly, I abandon his erection and yank at his fly. A little sucking will get things rolling right along.
"Shit," he mutters.
"What?" He's frowning over my shoulder into the yard. "Don't tell me they're coming in already!"
"Did you tell Rory to come today?"
Cycles Page 1