by Mariah V Fox
My, my, my, hello mister bicep. I swear it’s waving at me from under his shirt. Is he flexing for me? That skintight gray henley has always been my favorite but I don’t think I’ve ever told him that in the eight years we’ve been together. Has it only been eight years? It feels like I’ve known him my entire life.
“Is this yours or mine?” he mumbles, barely looking up as I slip off my blazer, revealing the slinky silk camisole underneath. The way it rubs against my skin, it’s had me feeling frisky all day, almost like having vibrating panties, no one knows except– oh my god, everybody! Have my nipples been visibly hard all day? One glance in the mirror and I pretty much need sunglasses to avoid the high beams. And no one said anything? Well, that explains why Troy or Tanner or whatever the new intern’s name is, kept blushing in my presence. And I thought it was because he was a sweet, shy kid.
I never dressed sexy enough when Elliot and I were together, and now that we’re not, just barely, I’ve spent almost a whole paycheck on a new, apparently nipple-rific, wardrobe. I want him to see it, make things incredibly hard for him. And I mean hard, hard. Harder than my nipples in this silky top.
If the damn AC wasn’t on the fritz, I wouldn’t be having inappropriate thoughts about a man so off limits that limits aren’t even visible from here. Even with the binoculars we got for bird watching, took to the park once, and then used to spy on Delivery Dan across the street. No, nothing kinky, for his food. He doesn’t leave the house but he eats like a king, always delivered, always the newest, most delicious place in the city. What can I say? We get food envy.
Elliot’s eyes turn to me when I don’t answer, the bottle of shower gel delicately hanging from his enormous fingers. My teddy bear of a soon-to-be ex husband lights up like the Charlie Brown tree that we found in a thrift store during our poor, just out of college years and still put up in our living room every Christmas. Now it’s just tradition. Who gets custody of the tree? I don’t even know if I want it if he’s not gonna be here to help me decorate the wire branches.
“What?” I ask, acutely aware that he’s staring at me. I tell myself it’s because my nipples are pointing straight at him but it probably has more to do with me not answering the question he asked like five minutes ago. Something about shampoo, I think.
I swear I didn’t know he’d be here but you’d never guess by my attire. He’s always had a thing for me in girlie colors and this hot pink is definitely doing it for him. Believe me, it’s killing me more than it’s killing him that I still have it on.
He shakes his head, willing the dirty thoughts to leave. “It’s nothing. How was your day?”
He stands, putting the shower gel on the edge of the sink. He knows damn well that it’s his, an expensive birthday gift that I splashed out on last month. I think he knows it means more to me than it does him. He wants me to have it, maybe to remember him by. Or, he’s trying to barter, this piece of expensive manliness for my tuity fruity girlie delight. Not happening.
He kisses me on the cheek as he brushes past me, hands overflowing with product for his depressing little studio across town. I feel so sad and lonely all of a sudden, thinking about him in his bed alone.
“Didn’t I tell you I’d be home at 5:00?” I ask.
Why is he still here, especially if he’s not getting the hints that I’m not so subtly throwing his way? Hello, nipples in your face, why are they not in your mouth? I know that he enjoyed that little kiss on my cheek way too much. I have some other cheeks you can put those lips on.
Does he know how much I miss him? Waking up without him in our bed doesn’t feel right, no matter if we both know it’s for the best. Falling out of love is a bitch, I never wanted this for my life.
I wouldn’t know how to handle it if he was cold to me, or Jesus, what if he sent movers to pick up his stuff? Ones that looked like Jesus, with big beards and long hair and abs of steel from lifting couches all day long. Doesn’t matter what they’d look like, the point is, I’d question if we ever meant anything to each other.
No one understands this but these have been the best eight years of my life, I wouldn’t have married him if they weren’t. It just ran its course. We’re better off as friends. Could I add anymore clichés in there if I tried? Yes. It’s not him, it’s me. Only it’s not, it’s definitely him and his supposed inability to be both a good husband and a good writer.
I don’t kid myself into thinking that we can stay this close, but I wouldn’t be opposed to it if we did, as long as I never have to meet my replacement. I don’t want to come face to face with the woman who’s making him wake up every morning with a hard-on, just like I couldn’t let his exes attend our wedding. We’re just friends my pasty white ass, they wanted him back, he’s just a dude so he didn’t see it.
I’m kind of shocked that we can stay so civil. Not going to lie, I enjoyed the way he looked at me when I blew up as he told me he was leaving. Not because I wanted him to feel like an asshole but because it meant he cared. God, my nipples are standing at attention just thinking about it. Or maybe that’s still the silk cami.
“I missed the train,” he says, jumping me out of a daydream. “Gotta get used to the new schedule.”
I ignore him as my pussy contracts at the thought of our last time together, before he told me it was over, it was like he was proving to himself that we’ve still got that spark, no matter if everything else had crumbled over the years, which I’m not convinced it has.
“I think I’ve got it all. Oh, are you keeping the grill pan or can I take it? Because I’m really craving those Thanksgiving paninis you used to make for me.”
I smile, sitting at the foot of the bed to slip off the oppressive pumps I shoved my feet into this morning. Walking five blocks in these felt like the time I tried to train for a marathon. That was probably the worst hour of my life. It’s a single woman thing, I like what the heels do for my ass, but maybe not for my toes, all cramped and squished despite my cute pedicure. I will be so pissed if I develop hammertoe because of these damn things. Or is it pigeon toe? Either way, I don’t want it.
I rub my feet gingerly, avoiding eye contact with Elliot just a little longer. If I look at him, I’m going to pounce, straddle his face for at least an hour before I beg him not to leave me.
“You take the pan, you know I’m useless with a turkey.” The hint of a smile overtakes my lips.
His stuff delicately slides from his fingers to the duffle bag I suddenly realize is overflowing beside him. I can’t help but get choked up at the sight of it. Most of his stuff was packed up earlier in the day, slowly moving to his new apartment. As many painful memories as this place has, there’s still nowhere else I’d rather be. Someday I won’t miss his presence every second of the day.
His hands reach out for my feet, rubbing them tenderly as a way to stop us both from crying. Why is my heart questioning what is really the only choice? If we were meant to be, it wouldn’t be so shockingly obvious that we can’t go on the way we have been, fighting for the sake of excitement, half-assing it between the sheets, resenting everything the other one says or does for completely asinine reasons. It’s not his fault the pillows on his side of the bed are always fluffier, we don’t even have sides of the bed, it’s completely random, but it doesn’t stop me from going to sleep angry. I feel like we’re just looking for excuses to find excitement elsewhere.
“I love you,” he whispers just loud enough for me to hear, his hands slipping up to my ankles. His touch smolders on my skin.
I’ll always love him, I have since our first date. “Remember the ferris wheel?”
He doesn’t look up as he slides his hands higher up my thighs, beneath my pencil skirt.
“You insisted on that iced cappuccino,” I continue, “even though you knew I was dragging you on every single ride at the carnival.”
Parting my legs, his breath caresses my skin as he leans his head closer, inhaling my scent. My heartbeat moves lower, pulsing between my thighs like the
adrenaline surge I felt when he stripped off my sweater in the haunted house ride.
“I spilled it all over your lap,” he whimpers, slipping his fingers into the lace edge of my panties. “I swear, it wasn’t an excuse to feel you up, but it was damn fun licking it off you all night.”
I can’t breathe as my panties are tugged down to my knees, his cool breath tickling away the moisture caused by my underwear. Now how did those get so wet?
His lips find me.
My head falls back to the bed, both hands balled in the sheets almost immediately.
“Fuck, Brooke, you are the best tasting snack I’ve ever had.” He fumbles with my zipper as he says it, fingers wandering under my tank top, making it a thousand times harder for him to pull the zipper down and get me out of this skintight skirt. If I’d known the night was going to turn out this way, I would have worn something flowier. More flowy? Flowsome? Whatever, something easier to slip off.
I didn’t know he’d still be here by the time I got home. I just thought I’d walk in to find his stuff gone, knowing him, a note on my pillow to try and make what we’ve put ourselves through alright. Always more of a writer than a talker. There’s no words that can fix this, even his. It won’t ever be alright…
The Husband
The Waiter
The Husband’s Best Friend
The Superhero Stranger
The Boss
The Delivery Man
The Boy Next Door
The Sexy Santa
The Christmas Gift
&
Letting Her Guard Down: Nichole
Freedom And Desire: Gabriella