About Being Different

I think I'm going to cheat on my wife. It's the first time I've entertained the idea. We're having problems. The problems aren't new but this is the first time I've let my mind wander elsewhere. She lays next to me in bed, silently, and hopes that I won't notice she's awake. I can hear the way she's holding her breath. She's afraid I'll try something. Morning sex used to be our thing. I'd wake her up with kisses and then long, wet love. It's been a while since I tried that. She used to compare me to the dog. For a long time it was a joke but then it stopped being funny.

Pale pink skin above her face was the only light she could see. The room was dark to an extent where their bodies gave off illumination and the darkness looked solid. He was writhing in passion as she ran a hand down the skin above her face. The shoulder she touched matched the rhythm of his body. She tried to enjoy the rasp of his body against hers but it became an endeavor of giving as she exhausted his pleasure.

Seconds later he gave into the pulse of his manhood. It was a condemning movement. He kissed her lips and lay across her body.

The pains of decision have led back into me. After all the time spent in this dark chamber I gave into it. While December came early for the outside world, my sanity had come much too late. Sarah and Jimmy played with the slush and then mud splattered they bounced back into the house.

"Mommie can we have some soup with noddles?" Sarah wined.

I nodded and continued stitching the sides of her mittens together. They would be back to bother me in a moment, but I chose to ignore their little demands. Recently this spite felt like power too often.

Wide shoulders. Thick from the bone. Not the kind of bulk that could be acquired. He stood at the back of the greenhouse, shoveling fertilizer. She let her eyes dart up to watch the fabric of his shirt strain. He wiped at his brow with a gloved hand and their eyes met. He sent her a kind smile and went back to his work.

The thing about a real man, the kind that can make a woman feel small, is that there's no faking it. A man can pretend to protect but not for long. Annabelle was used to brash men and mean men. She even knew some desperate men.

The club was rockin'. People lined the walls and squeezed tightly onto the small dance floor. The room was overly warm and smelled of warm bodies. She weaved through the bodies, desperately looking for an open space, and wondered for the millionth time what she was doing. Her hand clutched at the lapels of the trench coat.