I couldn't believe that he just stared blankly at me, as if I hadn't asked him why he should expect me to believe he loves me, when his actions always contradict his words. It was the usual bit. It had always been easy to get a grip of my next statement of wisdom, when this occurred in past arguments, but this time my throat knotted up and my mind swirled in hard, scraping torments leaving me helpless to the visions of the my soul wilting upon impact of the next revelation. I couldn't win. I couldn't be heard and understood on this matter or any other, due to some deficit of even empathetic love he could not have gained from a life of detached complacency.
It wasn't long before I was pacing, unsure of what was next. Then it really hit me that I would have no choice but to give up, and submit to my worst fears. I saw the phone unit that I'd previously ripped from the wall and it reminded me of the cabinet door I had so malevolently kicked in during a fight months before. I wondered if I could at least repair the phone. Had I really hurt it as badly as I had intended? Had I damaged it as thoroughly as I'd been ripped apart? That was my goal, because I could never do that to a human, but a phone had no feelings, right?
I ran over to it, suddenly feeling as though I'd killed it. I actually felt sorry for it, and I began to work on fixing it. He neared us to see what I was doing, in order to see what care I was giving the phone that has so faithfully called out to me each time someone beckoned me through it. What had the phone ever done to me?
The cabinet had pissed me off before. It wouldn't stay open when I unloaded the dishwasher, unless I opened it all of the way, and then it would reach out and grab my leg and bruise me if I neared it too closely. That fucking door had it coming!
I didn't know what I was doing. I couldn't make heads or tails of what part went to what, and I just saw the flashes of indifference he had given to my concerns, so I really just sat on the floor Indian style and held everything, sobbing like a helpless basket case. That was something I knew how to do. I could weave baskets, and sell them to make the money to leave here. A flash, a decent revelation of an alternative to going insane.
Among all of the jumbled transmissions, my neurons sensed a change in the air. One of concern on his part. Weird as it was I got hopeful and looked up and noticed he was gone. He went into the dining room. I heard him shuffling around through drawers in our hutch, looking and searching for something. He returned with a little thing in his hand that looked related to the phone in some way.
There we sat broken, the phone and I, and he worked to fix the phone. I just sat there, tears streaming down my cheeks watching him care so deeply about the phone. Once he got to a certain point, and began to remount the phone on the wall, I realized that he welcomed the distraction from repairing what really mattered, and I just knew that I would have to seek repair elsewhere, just like the phone had to do. I broke the phone, he had to fixed it. Who would fix me?
Well, I didn't know, so I just stumbled to my feet and proceeded to go up to the bedroom in a daze of haze of self hazardous dilemma. My mind could only lead my body to encumber the bed, and yield to his needs, as he sonly entered the room, making physically loving advances at me, to try and pose them as care for my inner suffering.
His body wrapped around mine in some effort to maintain the familiarity he cherished. He couldn't feel my soul cringe at his touch. He didn't care to acknowledge my distance, yet he knew instinctually that I wasn't feeling the lusting draw I feel when the mood is equated between us. So, in his vain desire to see me writhing in pleasure by his hand, he began to touch me on the back of the neck. This was a highly erogenous zone for me, yet I experienced a chill so deep that it left me convinced that I'd lost all contact with myself.
His hand slid up my side searching for the arc from my chest to my left breast. He ran his hand over breast in a soft, slow manner, stopping at my nipple to begin the usual stimulation he had mastered. I had a quick flash of being under the tree, orange fruit hanging down at me, smiling, and begging me to pick and eat it, ripe with nourishing juice. My arm outstretched instinctively as I imagined that the touch I felt came from a man who sensed my passion for the sweetness it held, to come before the fulfillment of eating up the moment. He knew only to touch me because I needed to be loved. Not to serve his lusts. He would fix all of my doubts by in turn lettin me be myself.
I wanted that fruit, with it's promising reliability and trusty glow. I grabbed it and pulled myself to it. My mouth met his and he acted surprised with a flinch, yet he suddenly, with a hot breath, gave full stead outburst of his passion for me to submit to his desires, unknowing of mine. Always, he knew nothing of me so my mind went back to my new reality. This man of many moments of dreams combined, now eased himself upon me, in a gentle manner, looking into my eyes, he kissed me without hesitation, but with great care in his lips to meet mine at a point that didn't berate me. I saw his dark hair shimmer a reflection of the dappled sun, that cascaded from the tree leaves above us.
His groin pressed against mine as we entwined our needs and gave forth heat and lust. My breasts heaved under him, as he worked his tongue and mouth down the side of my neck, where he trailed his moisture onto my dry flesh wanting to be replenished of its nourished state before a time in which high winded selfishness dominated the landscape surrounding me.
