On her fortieth birthday getaway he left the passports and tickets on the kitchen counter and they said nothing to each other for four hours on the drive home, screamed at each other spitting blame and excuses and then fucked across the same kitchen counter an hour after midnight.
There wasn't a single thing that couldn't be made better by a ten minute quickie, or an hour finding the heat in all their familiar places. TLDR? Sex was the redeeming feature of the relationship from day one until the day he left.
Back then, Clare was all woman, full honey blonde curls to the waist, thick thighs, green eyes and tits that looked ten years younger than she did.
When they finally got away, he was a miserable companion. She wanted to see the megaliths at Carnac, he hadn't brought any walking shoes and bitched about his muddy brogues the whole time.
She didn't expect cancer. And even once it sank in, she didn't expect to lose the arm along with the breast, only to find six months later that it had spread anyway. And then he left. Said nursing a dying girlfriend was too depressing at his age.
Fifty three tomorrow, but the birthday candles were blown out last Saturday, the lock-in at the Mare's Head had her stumbling home with her best friend in the cold light of dawn. Two hundred well wishes on Facebook and a sappy collection of text messages kept her spirits up the following day but tonight felt too heavy to carry.
Food tasted like shit at the party. Even fucking chocolate tasted like shit. The smell was all off.
Maybe that was why this contraption didn't live up to its reputation, despite the fact it cost more than her first car. The dutiful little plastic cock slid in and pulled out, regular as a sewing machine needle, and angled to hit the right spot. She would never have noticed the smell before. The oily scent of the motor and lube, the chemical stink of vinyl.
Now she kicks the off lever and her stomach churns. Perhaps if she sits up for a minute and takes a few deep breaths? No. It's still too much. Even the rose scented candles smell like a chemical toilet. She swallows the acid in her mouth and heads downstairs to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Her body isn't what it used to be, but she's not worried about that in her own house. She leaves the dressing gown open, haphazardly filling it's pockets with cigarettes, lighter and phone before taking her coffee outside to the deck.
The halo of solar lights paint the wood and furniture in eerie splotches of rainbow light. It's cooler out here but there's no breeze. That's a shame. She would have loved that comforting touch.
The smell of honeysuckle is different than it should be, but not bad at all. It's strange. The nice healthy vape tastes like poison now, but this hot cancer stick tastes just as bad as it did before chemo fucked her taste buds. She takes a looong drag and holds it before letting it all out with a dry little cough.
Dear god. Is it too much to ask this clapped out machine her soul is riding to give her a little more pleasure before the last long night? She doesn't want to start a relationship and leave a hole in someone else's heart. Dating apps are a meat market, and casual encounters have been more painful than they're worth anyway. She smirks. Humiliation was never her kink. Being pitied is such a fucking turn off.
Masturbation was never her thing, it always leaves her hornier than when she started. Maybe she'll dig out her old swimming nose clip and give the fuck machine another ride if she can find the energy.