Author's note: I enjoy writing stories that revolve around a single scene. I love freezing and bubble-wrapping a moment in time, with heightened tension and sexuality, and exploring all of its facets. This is one of those stories.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you think it was worth the detour, please leave a comment or send me a message. Us writers live for these, it's the only compensation we get.
As always, my stories leave something for the imagination. Don't say I did warn you!
Disclaimer: All characters are 18+.
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I had to do a double take. It was her. Not that I couldn't recognize her immediately, but the notion of her body being in the same room as mine, let alone less than twenty feet away, seemed so unimaginable that I had to do a double take.
Our eyes met for the first time. Hers were a light honey shade and had a vague bored look that took a second to disappear, replaced by a mixture of surprise and incomprehension when her brain processed the image that they had seen: Me.
She averted them for a split second then came back, because she obviously had to do a double take as well. She held my stare. I shivered. It was her, really her.
Her.
Here
.
Despite my brain telling me that it wasn't the time nor place, I soared through the early signs of arousal as my cheeks flushed and my blood rushed down to the little parts of me she always triggered. The mere sight of her and her eyes was all the stimulation I needed. It had been that way for a while.
For months
.
I wanted to smile, to seem at ease, unfazed. I wanted to appear as the serene, mature person she had always known me to be in our remote chats. I couldn't. I felt powerless and nauseous. Probably due to the ringing and thumping in my ears. A sensation of queasiness rose from my feet to my mouth. I tried to swallow but the saliva was gone. My body was tearing apart and finally discrediting whatever lie I had previously used to convince myself that she didn't have as much of an effect on me as I did on her.
Then, in less than a few seconds, I oscillated between many opposite feelings, unable to settle on anything, unable to pick one end of the scale to tip myself toward. I was excited and enraged, empty and whole, serene and disturbed, absent and aware, complete and broken.
I was and I
wasn't
.
We held our stares more than it should have ever been appropriate for strangers to do. Then we averted our gazes almost simultaneously. A second later, we came back, we stared, I free-fell in the abyss, then we looked away again. We danced that dance that only estranged lovers could, building more tension with every passing moment.
I was now only vaguely aware of other people and things around us. I absentmindedly grabbed some popcorn out of the carton box to distract my mouth and tongue. Because they wanted to be on her.
In her.
But I had to stop myself from going down that thought process. So I forced my eyes to look at him, her companion, the one I knew she had been dating for five years. He was even less impressive in person. His photos made him seem sophisticated or classy at times, but I knew his ilk well enough to read between the lines. His live presence didn't ease my disdain.
He was sitting elegantly in the movies lounge, his hand draped over her shoulder, his palm hanging slightly above her chest, his other hand tapping on an iPhone that was balancing just perfectly over his thigh. He was wearing a suit, because of course he'd wear a suit on a casual weekend outing to the movies.
I
hated
him.
I had never been jealous of anyone or hated anyone, but I had lately recognized that I absolutely despised him, without ever meeting him. And now that he was in front of me, I hated him even more.
I hated the palm he was swaying in front of her chest, nonchalantly, not even aware that it was doing the very thing I dreamt of, not even appreciating the privileges that it possessed. I hated the fact that he could smell her, be near her, look at her, touch her, as if it was the most mundane thing, while I sat twenty feet away, stealing glances at her, desperately trying to suck all of the air out of the room so I could get a whiff of her perfume. I hated his smugness and his unassuming air. I hated him for being the person she chose to be with, to love, and, as I had grown to know, obey. I knew he owned her in ways I never could. He could make her do anything for him, and I hated him even more for that.
Because of him, I was the "other woman," no matter how much I wanted to deny that. But I was.
I had been -- for several months now -- her friend, her confidante, her pseudo-shrink, the one who triggered the better version of herself. I was the side lover too, virtually. I was the one she ran to when she couldn't stand him, and the one she left behind when things were magically fixed between them a few hours later. What would you call that except "the other woman?"
I felt used and abused, yet I directed my hatred toward him, not her. The only reason she relegated me to the second position was because
he
singlehandedly occupied the first one. And I hated him for being her preference, instead of her for repeatedly making these poor decisions.
Because of him, she abandoned me and left me feeling worthless at times. She ignored my advice and kept running after the unfixable. She couldn't go anywhere or do anything without accounting for her whereabouts every second of every day. Because of him, we were meeting face to face now, here, of all days and all places. And I was sitting across a couple of tables at the movies lounge, staring in rage while he looked around with an air of entitlement. Because of him, she wasn't in my arms now, and despite him not being directly responsible for any of it, despite her being the one stuck between the two of us, despite all the games she played to keep me around while she chose him over and over again, I hated him and not her.
I couldn't
possibly
hate her. Not for lack of trying.
I moved my eyes back to her. She had observed my reaction when I saw him. My dislike of him and the way he treated her was no secret between us, so she wasn't surprised to see the cringe on my face. She looked apologetic now, though, as if she was sorry he was there, ruining our first real-life moment together.
Our first in-person encounter.
She was only a few feet away, wasn't she? Here, now, in the flesh. Fixing me with those light honey eyes that I had stared at for months on my phone's screen. The lively version was a lot more effective than the static one in her display image.
She was here, all of her, and I shivered at the thought that I may be able to brush past her soon. The idea that my skin could touch hers sent my body into a frenzy and I had to clench my thighs together, as my muscles quivered.
She instantly spotted my discomfort, lowered her eyes to find its origin and looked a little too long, burning every cell in my body under her gaze. When she finally raised her eyes, she had a questioning look mixed with a naughty smile.
I grabbed more popcorn and prayed that this would be over soon. Or that it would last forever.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her readjust her seated position, raise her knee more toward the couch while slightly spreading her thighs open. One of her hands came to rest innocently on top of her thigh, right below the hem of her shorts. Her very, very, very short shorts. She knew she had my entire attention so she started slowly moving her fingers, almost absentmindedly. We both knew her mind was anything but absent.
I stared. At the way her fingers stretched and curled. At the skin they were touching. At the nearby hem of her shorts -- her very, very, very short shorts.
I'd never admitted that I liked her, or the extent of the effect she had on me. She had asked me that question many times, curious as to why I behaved the way I did, but I stuck to my guns, saying I was a friend.
A friend who was ready to talk to her at any time of the day.
A friend who accepted that she erase our entire chat history, every message and every pic, each day before she saw him, lest he pick up her phone and see them.
A friend who resigned herself to the rule of silence when she was with him and immediately replied when she came back from his place and wanted to talk to me.
A friend who knew her history and her deepest secrets, like the fact that he rarely, if ever, made her orgasm. And a friend who
helped
her masturbate many times to fix that itch.
Oh, who was I kidding? It was a bluff, a big fat lie to protect myself from the heartache of admitting how much I had fallen for her. She suspected it, but she didn't know for sure. And that allowed me to keep a semblance of dignity. To pretend that none of it affected me. To continue living a life as separate from hers as possible, one that didn't revolve around her messages and unavailability. And to avoid facing the reality of our relationship, because if I did, I'd have to give her an ultimatum. And I knew she'd pick him.
She'd
always
pick him.
She kept grazing her fingernails on her inner thigh, looking away, then staring back at me, a quasi-invisible smile stretching the corner of her lips each time. Did my face betray me? Did my eyes stay fixed on the contact point of her digits? Did my mouth drool at the thought of kissing that skin? Did she know now? Had she always known?
This was our unspoken truth. And it was disintegrating at the slow, slow pace of her fingers brushing against her thigh.
The next time she asks if I liked her, could I lie again? Could I pretend that I didn't melt into a puddle when I saw her? Or that I didn't get drenched when she overtly touched herself in front of me?
The image of her pussy lips floated in the back of my mind. She'd shared that photo with me once, when we were talking about her small clit and puffy lips. (Because of course "friends" talk about their small clits and puffy lips and how that combo sometimes requires a different approach to orgasms. And of course they share images of those for "demo" purposes.) I'd stared at that pic oh so many times, fantasizing about all the ways I could pleasure her. And now, the subject of that photo was a few feet away from me, mere inches away from her fingers. Oh fuck.
He suddenly stopped typing and turned his attention to her and it's as if someone had clicked an invisible button. She instantly stopped grazing her fingers against her thigh, shifted most of her body away from me, and looked at him. I felt the adoration in her eyes more than I saw it. Her whole face lit up. He only said a few words, but it looked like he'd promised her the world.
I didn't exist anymore.
I was here.
I was fucking
here
. Blood and bones, here.
And she was still ignoring me.
Of course she was ignoring me.
Of course I couldn't possibly exist when
he
was around.
I felt even more queasy. To be asked to disappear when I was an abstract virtual human miles away was borderline
