She lay there, let her breath settle and her heart beat return to a steady thump in her chest instead of a pounding in her ears. Her head lay cradled in the crook of his arm, her own arm across his chest, still heaving breath after breath into his own lungs. The air was close around them, no breeze through the open window above them, only sounds from the street below.
His hand trailed along her skin, touching her arm gently, sending goose flesh raising after each caress. Her body rippled with an uncontrollable shiver. She watched his manicured hand, his knuckles untouched by age, the downy hair on his arm not yet crinkled by time. It was a marked contrast to the crepe-y lines along the crease in her elbow, the age spots freckled in her tan. She stroked the smooth skin of his chest, touched the inky places and traced the pictures. He was so remarkably smooth, unlined. She sighed as he grasped her hand in his.
“Hmm?” The silkiness of his voice reminded her he was not sleeping, only resting. “What is it? What are you thinking?” He raised her hand and kissed her palm softly, sensuously.
Only youth asks that question, her mind snarked unkindly. “I am thinking many things, nothing in particular…”
“Liar.” Always direct, always so sure of himself. Oh to be young again and so certain of your life and your world.
She curled her fingers around his hand, noticing they looked more and more like her mother’s hands. It was unsettling, this aging thing she did. It was stealing her confidence, squashing her desire to be seen with it’s ugly, wrinkled, leathery march across her body. She hoped it was not what he saw, but it was there; a shimmering mirage waiting to take permanent shape in the mirror. It was there.
“I wish I could see what you see.”
He chuckled deep in his firm chest, “See what I see? I’m not sure what you mean. Explain, please.” Again, he lifted her hand to his lips and nipped enticingly at her fingertips. She tilted her head to watch his tongue flick in and out of supple lips, tantalizing her body with this ghostly technique. He was ignorant of the struggle she waged, fighting the urge to pull her hand away. Confidence. He had it in spades.
“Concentrate,” he teased. “Explain what you just said.”
“Me. I wish I could see what you see in me.” She watched as his lips parted in mirth, perfect white teeth gleamed in the low light and her heart squeezed. She should never have said it. He would tell her now, and she didn’t really want an answer. That was the beauty of age: knowing when you don’t want the answer and valuing the sweet melancholy of silence.
“I see you.”
She waited, breath held against his side, thankful her hair covered her face. He laid her hand on his chest and resumed stroking her lightly as his other hand curled around her shoulder.
“I see who you want to be, who you became for someone else, who you don’t want to be but are anyway. I see so much more than the things you see about yourself.” He patted her hand reassuringly, his tone ringing lightly of condescension. “I see a beautiful woman that cannot decide whether to embrace herself or fade quietly away. I see that fight in you.” He rolled to his side, sliding his arm out from under her and propping himself on his elbow.
She peeked from below the cascade of her hair to look into his eyes. They searched her, deep brown and clear, his brow creased in concern for only a moment. His hair was tousled, hanging down his forehead in a daring curl of wrecked gel. She watched him as he traced the lines of her back, down her side to her waist, around the bottom of her buttock to her inner thigh. She could feel her skin flush and leap under his touch.
“I see you. I see more of you than anyone else, I bet.”
She chortled, “Well of course. I’m naked.”
“More than that,” He slapped her behind hard enough to crack the air around them. “I see the things that light you up: desire, exploration, contentment, satisfaction.” He abandoned tracing her body with his hand and took up instead with tiny, feathery kisses. “I see everything and I desire it all. Even those things you wish you could hide.”
She rolled to her back, letting her hair conceal all her features except her eyes. She watched as his face broke into a confident grin, his eyes refusing to leave her body. That gaze consumed her, devoured every feature hungrily. He laid his hand flat on her stomach, stroked upwards, between her breasts and back down. He pulled his palm off and used only the tips of his fingers, tracing the median line of her to the hollow at her neck, down around the pink of her nipple. She watched him smile as it rose to his caress, his hands tracing her breast from the top to its swell at her sides. Her back arched and she bit back the sounds that threatened to escape.
“I see your scars, inside and out,” he arched an eyebrow confidently, “I see your artistry, your failings, your perfection, your self-loathing. I see your interest and ennui…”
“Ennui?” She chuckled into the warm air of the bedroom. “Complicated word.”
“Yes, ennui. You do know what that means, don’t you?” He rolled atop her, propped above by his arms, biceps bulging with the effort. His knees pushed her legs open beneath him. “I see your boredom. I see it all and I have only one thought…” His gazed locked on her.
“Yes?” She breathed, not daring to take her eyes away from him. He drug her hair gently away from her face with a finger, exposing her to him in full. She was bare, makeup long gone to the dark sheets, crows feet and wrinkles and age spots in full bloom on her face.
“I want to own it, possess it, make it mine.” His mouth came down on hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth; filling it, demanding response, pulling heat and desire from her as easily as the rising sun. She could feel him lower to her, his chest pressing on her own, the hardness of him pulsing at her open thighs.
It can’t be that simple, her mind screamed at her. Its keening weakened within the crescendo of her body responding in force to his. She no longer fretted over holding in her stomach, turning her face to the light or softening the wrinkles at her eyes. She had no choice but to melt against his persistence, to surrender to the heat of the moment. Her body no longer cared to do anything but receive; her mind was another matter.
Perhaps this would be the last time, she mused. Perhaps this time he would awaken to the truth of her: aging beauty fading into the light of morning. Perhaps he would realize in the daylight, stark and revealing, that every drop of her youth had drained away, leaving only a desiccated husk of who she used to be. Perhaps he wouldn’t miss her when she slunk from his bed, shoes held in hand and the door pulled shut with a click as he slept.
Perhaps, but not yet.
“Hello?”
The word snapped her back to reality like a splash of cold water. She looked over to find her husband grinning at her as they lay in bed, side by side. His hand reached and patted her leg gently.
“What are you reading? You’re about to chew your lip to bits,” He stretched to tug her lower lip from her teeth.
“Just a book,” she looked wistfully down at the pages. She could see a thumb print in the cheap paper where she had held on a little too tightly.
“Going to give yourself sores if you don’t stop chewing your lip,” he turned back to the television. “Must be some book.”
“Just a fantasy. A fairy tale, I guess.”
“Hmmm,” he grunted, fumbling to pat at her leg through the comforter. “Back to reality.”
“Indeed.”
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