Sequel to
What are the odds?
Dear reader. This is set in Australia. We spell colour, with a 'u'. We have arses. We are sometimes arses. OK, most of the time we are arses. 'Shit' is one of our most versatile words. 'Fuck' is punctuation and sometimes 'Cunt' is a diminutive sobriquet. "Naw, lookit the little cunt." I'm sorry in advance for the legwork you may have to do to google search 'Ozzy slang'.
This also follows my recent entry in the Valentines Day comp,
What are the odds?
. There is sex. But if you're here for a wank, try a more, "I never thought this would happen to me" story.
And thankyou so much for caring about one of my characters, "Trina" as much as I did when I wrote her. Here is her story.
I reserve all the usual publishing rights and all characters are fictional, all persons consenting adults.
For my wifey who insisted that Trina deserved happiness.
*
Somewhere back in your sheltered eyes I see a secret garden.
Around a cottage long since lived in, flowers scream their Technicolor rage.
Twisted trellises torture roses and a pissing-boy fountain fills with your tears.
A pathway bleeds from a wound in the open front door
And inside, tables and chairs lie where you kicked them;
Ornaments litter the floor.
Mumbles of lies and secret violations echo from the trust-spattered walls,
And I wonder....
Do you ever come back and sit by the fountain,
bury your feet in the never-mown grass and wish
that spring would someday return
to the garden inside of your heart?
HAPPY EVER AFTER
It's been a fucking long week. One of those weeks where I've made too many withdrawals and too few deposits into the relationship bank. Sasha is understanding. She had a week like that a fortnight ago with one of her big cases. Walking home from work I stop in the mall and pick up some flowers from a little shop.
She loves daisies.
Six months ago, I didn't know that. All I knew was I liked her a shit-tonne, she was dynamite in the sack and fucking stupid enough to want to share it with a clown like me. Now I know all sorts of things.
I know sometimes she goes quiet and it's not because she's angry. It's because she's day-dreaming. Dream building, creating a future in her head or simply just enjoying the peace and wonder that she's experiencing. Her favourite colour is pink. Dogs not cats. All sorts of tiny details too and I love them all.
We started using the "L" word a few months ago. A lot. I feel it too. A lot. She's my thing and I'm her thing. Two parts to a puzzle that didn't make sense until we got them together. And trust me, we get our parts together as often and as furiously as we can.
Life and work conspire to keep us busy and tired, like they do to most couples. It's hard to reconcile our need for each other and our availability and sometimes it spills over into jealousy. Not ridiculous accusations or suspicion but jealousy for others demands on our time. Our disappointment is usually turned inward with genuine feelings of loss instead of damaging feelings of neglect. It's the cost of being with someone you love and still respect on an intellectual level. Someone whose career is as important to you as it is to them.
It's still hard though. Like tonight. My heart burns to see her and my mouth swarms with words that I haven't been able to tell her because she's been in Townsville all week with a rape trial. She'll probably be asleep when I get home. Sasha says she never sleeps well when she's away and every time she gets home, she stretches on the bed we share and falls asleep, savouring the remembered smell of us; sometimes even in the clothes she flew in.
This week I was swamped too. Bogged down in bloody spreadsheets and dodgy cheap accounting software trying to unravel three years' worth of embezzlement. I worked too late, missed her calls, missed her and felt like shit. I hope she's still awake when I get home.
There's a busker in the mall with a small crowd of onlookers. I hear the music lilting over the bustle and noise of people. It's one Sasha's favourites. "Beautiful Wreck" by Shawn Mullins. I jockey through the people and lean against a storefront listening to the boy crucify it enthusiastically. When he's done, I flip a gold coin in his guitar case and glancing sideways I see a jeweller's display.
Do you believe in signs? I've always struggled with the concept that a higher power is leading us somewhere. But there in the display case is the most beautiful ring I've ever seen. It's pink and shaped like a small heart. Why have I never bought her jewellery?
At the unit I untie my shoes and slip them off. This is another of life's sheer pleasures. Stretching my toes and clearing my throat I call, "Home darlin."
There's no answer and peeking around the closed bedroom door a snuggled mess of dark hair and perfect curves lies naked on the bed. There's a note on the bed near her feet, "Wake me up roughly. I've missed you."
So inspired, showering takes me all of a minute. Drying off, maybe thirty seconds and getting to the bedroom less than three. My weight on the bed alone is enough to rouse her and sleepy eyed, she smiles and pushes me down to mount me.
"Fucking far too fucking long." She growls as she works me into her slowly; advancing and retreating until her lubrication welcomes me to the hilt.
"Far too long." She groans and works her hips to a rapid and sharp orgasm, then slumps back against the bed. I slip from her and hustle to reclaim my prize. Kissing her gorgeous lips, I press insistently inside her and buck my way in short succession to a hurried repossession of our union. All too quickly I cum inside her and fall away myself.
"Hey." I cradle her face with my hands.
"Gidday idiot." She dimples at me.
"Love ya."
"Hold me tight, I'm really fucked."
"Well..."
She punches my shoulder and snuggles off to sleep again.
At the first hints of drool and snoring I rise and find food. We've reached that stage of partnership where bodily functions lose their surprise, but we still try to fart privately.
Sitting on the couch watching drivel on the telly, I can see her through the open door and only close it when Mum and Dad come home after dinner. Deprived of my favourite view, I take some bourbon to the balcony and stare out over the city.
Life is good. Once that would have worried me with thoughts of sudden downfalls, but this seems to be my new normal. My happy ever after.
It's not a fairy tale any more. There are bills and responsibilities and interruptions and sickness and all the usual ways that life tries to fuck you in the arse but I'm really quite content. Not new lover happy but real-life content. We display our love socially and include our friends in our new 'normal', not frightened any longer by its fragility.
