My second and last entry for the 2025 Valentine's Day story bash. My last one was heading into LW, at the end, it was better suited in Romance, so is sat over there.
I need to thank Tim1135 for keeping this on schedule and nudging it along as we went. Any names that crop up are fictitious people, this is just a tale of love going wrong. Here we go, welcome to:
Forget-Me-Not, Not Forget Me
We were together in our own intimate space. The special meal was laid out on the table. Despite not being hungry, I picked up a sliced carrot and slipped it into my mouth. The taste was sublime, I'd never eaten a piece of carrot like it. There were hints of honey, cinnamon and a slight taste of garlic, although not enough to cause upset to others.
"These carrots are absolutely divine darling, I'll have to see if I can find a recipe for them."
Smiling at my husband, I continued.
"It's quite a different Valentine's Day meal to our usual trip to Mamma Giovanna's isn't it?"
I laughed, remembering the call from the previous week, I'd not told my husband at the time but, it was actually relevant today.
"They actually called me, on the home phone, that is. They noted we hadn't called to book our table. Giovanna's son said he remembered being our waiter, it was the first time he had helped out in the restaurant and now look at him. Running the place with his wife after his mum retired."
I sighed, this was one of the tough days.
"Of course, I told him to let it go this time, mind you, he did make a note to ensure it was booked for us next year, wouldn't that be really nice, love."
I tried to stop, I couldn't. Letting the tears trickle freely, it didn't matter as the only two people sharing this intimate time was me and my husband Tom. Although, that wasn't strictly true.
I
was having a Valentine Day's meal, a take-out I'd pre-ordered from the bistro just around the corner from the hospital, the one popular with a lot of the doctors and nurses that worked here. The meal was sitting on the tray-come-table on wheels that could be pushed to sit over the bed. I had no clue if Tom could hear me. He was ill, ill enough to be kept sedated and fed via a tube. Not long after we married, he developed Ulcerative Colitis, although it took a while to diagnose. He lived with it and we coped, let's face it, when you have a long-term illness, you learn to cope, work around it. That's the only way you'll ever survive it mentally.
For some reason, this time it was bad. The ulcers created pus that caused a blood infection and for once, it was really bad. For two weeks, Tom had been clinging to life. He was stable now and the signs were that he would start to pick up. In the meantime, he was a mass of tubes, drips and wires to keep him going. The medication meant he was out of it, like now, for hours on end. Even when he was awake, he was so confused, lost, I felt better for him when he was like this. At least he looked peaceful.
I ate some more, the reality was, I had no real appetite. How could I on this special day like this? I sat with him for another hour, talking, squeezing his hand in the hope he could hear me and understand me. Over and over, I told him how important he was to me, to our son, Conner. I let him in on a secret. Conner was going to propose to his girlfriend, Star, tonight. They had been together for two years and were about to move away from an academic life at uni to the big wide world of work. She was good for him, helped deal with this, despite being so far away.
Walking through the maze of the corridors to reach the exit kept lowering my already battered emotional state. Men walked by with bouquets, chocolates, I even spied a hamper with a mix of goodies including champagne. Women had gifts and most had Valentine's Day cards, declaring their love for their significant other that were stuck in hospital for some reason or the other. I had opened Tom's card. No, not from him, the one from me to him. I'd sat and read it out to him, desperately trying to stop my voice from faltering as I too, declared my undying love for him. With some luck, when he came around, he would see it, appreciate my display of affection within the carefully scribed words.
Like a volcano, I could sense my own grief rising from within. At least in the car, I couldn't be tortured by the signs of love that were abound. Without thinking about the route home, I suddenly found myself at the traffic lights outside of Mamma Giovanna's. The red light glowed as if to taunt me, adding to my misery. It hadn't long opened for the evening and I couldn't stop myself from staring through the window, stare at the table where I should be about to sit with my husband. Instead, a young couple, early twenties, are already there. I can see she's a red head; I doubt the curly mass normally looked like that, the exquisite tresses created by a hair stylist purely for tonight. Did so go as far as me? Wear new and sexy underwear? Sit through the meal looking coyly at her husband, teasing him? Making sure that every movement, every mouthful of food, was a small beacon? All those little intimate actions pointing the way to the explosive sex that would follow once they'd practically torn the clothes from each other when they made it home. That was the tipping point, the point my heart broke. I let go and sobbed uncontrollably.
I never heard the honking horns, reality came back when the driver's door suddenly lurched open. The angry face of the man that was about to launch a verbal assault changed instantly. My grief so clearly visible, at my temporary loss of living, etched deeply on my face.
"Look love, you can pull over down the road, we've cycled through the lights once and there's an angry load of people stuck behind us. I'll pull over behind you if you need someone to talk to."
I apologised quickly, pulling the door shut with one hand as I crunched the car into first gear with the other hand and moved away from the junction. Trying to concentrate on the traffic just kept me together enough to make it home. Once inside, I managed to level back out, regained the composure that showed I was a woman doing my best, coping with a very sick husband. My soul, it longed for his touch, the sound of his voice and the little words of love he'd whisper to me, surprising me by creeping up, pulling me into a tight embrace from behind. We didn't argue or fight very often these days but, right now, I would cry tears of joy to even share a raw emotion such as that with him.
Putting the TV on, I sat with a cup of tea, thinking back to the couple that were sitting at the table in the restaurant we had reserved for countless years on this day. My eyes drifted down my body. With the barest sliver of hope, I had worn my husband's favourite dress and perfume. Like a typical woman, I didn't think someone of my age should be wearing clothing like this; a figure-hugging black dress that came just above my knees that squeezed my boobs together as if trying to spill them from the vee of the neckline. Tom disagreed strongly, said he loved the way it clung to my hips and accentuated my 'juicy arse' as he called it. I wished his hands were digging into my hips right now, his cock straining against the material of the dress into the crack of my arse as his lips would work between my neck and ear. All the while he would tell me in the most graphic terms what he would soon be doing to me. Telling me how he would use his teeth to pull the thong from my body, push his hands under the black satin bra to pinch my nipples as he ground into me. Taking a tissue from the box on the coffee table, I dabbed away another tear, praying for him to come back to me as soon as God would allow.
ΫΫΫΫ
The phone ringing made me jump. I had fallen asleep on the sofa and had no idea what the time was. I dreaded the phone ringing, fearful of the call no spouse wants to receive when their loved one's in hospital, where something terrible could happen at the drop of a hat. When I looked, it was an incoming WhatsApp video call from an unknown number which I immediately disconnected. Looking at the clock, it was nine twenty, I should really go and get out of these clothes and think about going to bed. Taking my cup out to kitchen, my phone went again. This time, with a WhatsApp message from the same number.
'Please talk 2 me I really need u'
A wrong number. Whoever it was, I echoed the sentiment. I really did need my husband back. Trying to put them out of their misery, I sent a quick reply sitting on the loo in the en-suite.
'Sorry U have wrong no, hope you sort your problems.'
A minute later as I was washing my hands, my phone pinged again. I assumed a thanks for letting them know they had the wrong number. Running through my pre-bedtime ritual for a few minutes, I sat on the bed getting ready to get undressed when my phone pinged again. I looked at the screen in disbelief, it had to be some sort of joke.
