Closed Doors Open Wounds

The first installment in the series explores the tensions a divorcing couple face when they find themselves trapped in an elevator. Beware: body fluid issues arise. If urine makes you squeamish, you might want to pass. This is a departure from my normal work, but this is a topic I wanted to explore. I am curious to see what happens next. I hope you'll agree.

"You're just as useless as the day we married."

"What would you like me to fix? The elevator or our failed marriage?"

"Fuck the marriage. Get me out of here." She glares at him for a moment before turning back to her phone. "I don't understand how I can't even get a single bar in here."

"You were never good with common sense things, like physics."

"Geek Squad isn't calling you, anytime soon. And you text like you're eighty."

He laughs. "And you act like a teeny-bopper. Oh wait, like a horny teenager. Yeah, that's your style."

"Check and see if you can get any bars."

"Naw, I know it won't work. Too much concrete and steel around the elevator shaft. We've been here an hour. Nothing changed."

"Please, Paul?"

He sighs and throws her a nasty look. Yet he takes out his phone and nods in confirmation. "Yup, just like I said. Nada."

Silence. Again. After the initial flurry of panic, they settled into a waiting pattern, basking in the certainty of rescue. That glow diminished as the clock struck another hour. Another hour deeper into a Friday night that already extended beyond normal business hours.

"This is all your fault, by the way," she says. They're in opposite corners, staking out the furthest possible distance from each other. She clutches her knees to her chest, grateful for the decision to wear pants.

"How is this my fault? Jesus Karen, you fucking blame me for everything."

"If you had signed last week, we wouldn't be here right now."

"Just because I called the meeting at my lawyer's office doesn't mean that I'm to blame for this. I stopped to take a piss, anyways. Why didn't you leave before I was done?" Paul glares at her.

"I ran into someone. Wait, I don't have to explain myself. I seriously regret getting into the elevator with you. I should have trusted my gut." Karen's eyes flare with anger. Paul flinches and looks away. Its an automatic response.

"Hey look! We agree with something. At least I had the presence of mind to relieve myself. Feeling anxious, Karen?" He noted her squirms, certain that she's ready to explode. He knows his wife, or at least, he used to know her. The affair shattered everything. He drowns in a sea of cynicism. "Who'd you run into at my lawyer's office?"

"None of your business."

"Did you sleep with them? I know you work fast."

"Fuck you Paul."

"Fuck you Karen."

Ten minutes pass as they stew.

"Someone is coming, aren't they?" Her voice is timid, vulnerable. He hasn't heard that tone in a very long time.

He sighs. "Eventually, I guess." Paul runs his hands through his thick black hair. He sees her watching intensely, wondering if she recalls how she used to tear at his locks in the throes of orgasm. She was his first and she rocked his world.

She is still the only woman he's ever been with. She can't claim to the same level of fidelity. His kind thoughts turn to ash as the betrayal filters to the surface. How many men has she slept with since their separation? He knows of at least two, if his friend Rick can be believed. He feels his stomach lurch, nausea ramping every time he remembers.

"Isn't there a guard on duty?"

"This size of building? Maybe. But we got out late and the other elevators might still work. No one knows we are stuck here." He spares no detail, callously feeding her anxiety. "Being Friday night, this could be a very long wait."

She whimpers. His heart aches but he pretends he doesn't notice. She isn't his to console, anymore.

He hates that he still loves her. He suspects that he always will. He tries to hate her. He keeps trying.

"We'll be ok Karen. Try not to worry."

"I have to piss, Paul. Like really badly." He looks up and is shaken to see tears streaking her face. He sees his former self reaching out to fold her into his arms, loving away her worries. He can't move, frozen by the scars lacing his heart. He stares at her dumbly, steeling his features against an emotional bleed. He imagines donning his best poker face and laughing cruelly at her agony. He knows he's better than that.

"Listen, I don't want you to piss yourself. No one deserves that, no matter what they did." He grabs his leather satchel. She ordered it from India a few years earlier and surprised him with it when he achieved his Master's degree. He opens the flap and pulls out an extra large plastic resealable bag. A sandwich is visible inside.

"I'm not hungry."

"Just a sec," he says. He slips a sheet of paper from the leather satchel and arranges the sandwich on it in the corner of the elevator. He wonders who will find them first, vermin or rescuers.

"Honey mustard peanut butter?" she asks. Her voice trembles.

"You know it."

A moment passes between them. The peculiar recipe brought them together and kept them nourished through countless meals. It was their go-to comfort food. Paul knows that he's conveying a powerful message to Karen through the reveal. He fears that she'll read into it; that she might know that he is still in love with her. Like the huntress, she's sniff out his vulnerability. He tries to summon his defenses, but as the peanut butter aroma wafts to his nose, he can't seem to find access to his anger.

"Ok, Karen, I'll turn my back and give you privacy. This is the best option I can think of."

"Piss into that baggie?"

"It will work, just be careful of splash-over. And for fuck sakes, do not drop the bag."

"Why are you being nice?"

"It's self-serving. I don't want you to piss yourself and then have to smell you for the next few hours."

"Right. Well, thanks." Paul passes her the plastic bag over his shoulder. He shifts uncomfortably, painfully aware that his extremely fit and attractive soon-to-be ex-wife is stripping behind him. A woman, coincidentally, who he still loves. And finds himself with her, trapped in an elevator. Alone.

Maybe an opportunity for a fresh start?

The thought comes out of nowhere and hammers him between his eyes. The memory of months of anguish pulses like an open wound. It's laughable. They just attended their final meeting with the lawyers. She walked out. They are done. How can he ever heal from the betrayal? Where would he even start? She doubled down on his pain and shattered their united identity.

"Paul. Goddammit. I can't. I'm scared."

"Scared of what?" Fresh starts are future planning. He focuses on the current crisis.

"Scared of dropping the bag and pissing all over the elevator. Can you help me?"

"Seriously?" He turns to rise. Her tight jeans are on the floor next to her, pink panties nestled in the crotch. She covers herself with the bag. He wonders whether she is aware that the clear plastic gives him a clear view to the thick thatch of pubic hair she grew. He arches his eyebrows and ushers away the arousal building in his pants. The pussy hair doesn't match his intel. Reputable sources swear that she's fucking half the town, but he knows she wouldn't be caught dead without dedicated grooming. Judging by the Black Forest between her legs, Karen's been out of action for awhile. He doesn't know how to process that.

Her brow knits and she dons her puppy dog eyes. Old patterns repeating themselves. He never could resist that look; it melts his heart every time.

"Ok, Christ. I'll hold the fucking bag," he growls. He tries to look bothered, but his mind whirls with every step. It's a shield. Confusion mounts. She's not wearing pants. He hasn't been this close to her in months. The last time they were together was the best experience of his life. He left her destroyed in their bed, quivering with resonating orgasms. She looked beyond happy. He felt complete. Their sex life was amazing.

He remembered how her face dissolved into panic with a knock at the door. He jumped out of bed, not realizing that he'd never lie next to her again.

He thought he was enough.

A series of discoveries proved that he was far from enough.

His heart died.

He never touched her again.

Except that his heart kept beating. He spent months fighting with himself. He hated her for the betrayal, and he hated himself for hating her. He wanted love to conquer all, but she refused to reconcile. Yet again, she deprived him of a choice. She agreed to marry him and she unilaterally ended their marriage.

No one gave him a choice. Everyone assumed that he'd want to divorce her. Even Karen assumed he wanted to divorce her. But he can't recall anyone ever asking him if that is what he truly wanted. Maybe the divorce lawyer. But by that time, what was done could not be undone. Karen took to the single life like a raccoon to a trashcan buffet.

"Just bend down, yeah squat. Ok, wait till I give you the word." Paul hovers behind his ex, her golden hair inches from his nose. Her scent is overpowering, beckoning him to bury his face in her neck. His hands tremble. He wants to touch her.

Karen squats facing the corner. She pulls her shirt down in vain. Her sculpted ass caps a perfect squat. Paul tries not to stare at her exposed asshole, even as he remembers countless hours embedded balls deep in her delicious canals. Paul kneels and opens the plastic lips of the bag under her gaping vagina. His hand accidentally grazes a cheek. He swallows a smile as he sees her shiver. But another familiar scent rises to torment him. Her sex. Her asshole. His mouth waters. He wants to hate her. He hungers for her.

"Go for it." The words barely part his lips before she gushes. Paul holds his breath as the bag grows heavy in his hands. Longer than he expects, the stream finally loses its steam.

"Careful of the easily kicked over and spilled package, please," he says. She rises with languid care. In slow motion, her ass rises to hover in his face, dripping pussy poking through.

He imagines arching forward, his mouth and tongue seeking her sweet treats. He sees her squeal in surprise, then surrendering to his masterful oral skills. And he sees the bag of urine pouring across his lap.

The thought rips him from his revelry. He turns his focus to the bag and completes the task without spilling a drop. He designates one corner out of access and secures the contents there. He feels like he's planting a land-mine. The urine jiggles in the sealed bag. The bag is hot, but proves to be leak proof.

"That was a one-shot deal, you know," he says.

"For you too. What are you going to do if this goes on?"

"Trying not to think about it."

"Fair enough."

"Thanks, by the way."

"Yeah, no prob. Not the first time I've done something like that for you." But might be the last.

"You did a lot of good things, Paul." She brings her knees to her chest. She lays her face on her knee, her voice muffled. "I don't know what the fuck happened."

Paul thinks of a thousand things he could say, but he remains silent.

"Thank you for not bringing up the obvious there. I feel like that's all we focused on, but we forgot about a lot of the good."

"Whoa, Karen. What is this 'we' thing? When did you bother to consult me on 'our' life changes? You left. I focused on the 'good' and you focused on the 'good bye'."

"You never fought for me."

"Excuse me? What the hell does that even mean? And when exactly did that happen, Karen? When did I go from being your loving husband to 'having to fight for you'?"

"I told you that I wanted to explore our sex lives beyond our marriage. You never listened. You put the idea down even before I could even discuss it. I made it very clear that I was curious and you refused to listen."

"When the hell did you ever say you wanted to fuck around?"

"I told you tons of stories about Lori and her lifestyle. The swinging group. Remember?" Her cheeks are flushed.

"So?"

"Well you told me they were sick and needed help. Every time I tried, it was the same thing. You called them sick and that made me feel like I couldn't confess that I wanted to explore the swinging lifestyle too."

"Jesus Christ. Karen, you got it all wrong! I said they were sick because they wanted to fuck Lori! Sorry she's your friend, but she's the ugliest and most disgusting woman on the face of the planet. I have no issues with swinging. I can't believe you'd think that about me. Do you even really know me at all?"

She stares at him with a haunted expression creeping across her features. The lines at her temples tremble.

Her voice, when she finds it, is soft and gentle. But it drips with sorrow. "Would you really have taken that journey with me?"

He wavers between cruelty and honesty. She is vulnerable. He sees a rare opportunity to inflict hurt. Payback.

But the circumstances change the channel. Her emotional vulnerability surprised him nearly as much as her physical exposure. His thirst for payback is dulled, for the moment. The spaces is cramped, there is no room in the elevator for dishonesty.

He speaks from his heart. "I can't say for sure Karen. Who can know what might have happened down that path? I think it is sad that you kept that 'side' of you from me. I would have loved all of you."

Silence. Sniffles and tears fill the space. Paul looks away, feeling stupid. His hands are cement and his body refuses to move. Another man might slide over and take her into his arms. A stronger man. He stares at his feet.

(Cont...)