Menage A Trois 8

Does she still love me?

The question nags at me as I pace restlessly in the empty house, waiting for her. It's getting dark. She's going to be late again. I should get used to it, but I can't. Don't want to.

I guess I'm a creature of habit.

I yawn, tired and bored. I could use a short nap, but I know I won't find sleep. Not when I don't know when she'll be home. Besides, she likes it when I greet her at the door.

And I like to please her.

I know she's back a second before she unlocks the door. I turn, stepping closer as she comes in, winter cold close on her steps. Her hair is disheveled, her cheeks rosy from the weather.

She's beautiful.

She seems in a hurry as she kicks off her shoes, then drops her handbag in the hallway and a couple of paper bags on the kitchen counter.

"Hello there," she smiles absently, noticing me as she rushes past to the bedroom, closing the door behind. I step closer. Close enough to hear the rustle of her clothes on the other side of the door as she's getting changed.

With another yawn, I turn toward the living room. After a short detour through the kitchen - if the smell of fresh vegetables is any indication, she's cooking tonight - I head straight for the couch. There's time enough for a short nap before dinner is ready. Knowing she's close by, sleep comes fast.

I wake up slowly, stretching lazily. At last I stand up, when I notice the bedroom door is now open. I can hear her humming quietly as I step closer. Silent, I stop just short of the doorway, peering inside.

She is sitting at her vanity, dressed in a short silky bathrobe. Looking absently into the large mirror in front of her, brushing her long hair, she does not notice me a few feet to her left.

For long minutes, I watch her profile, bare legs crossed, one kicking slowly in time to a silent music. The soothing sound of the brush running through her thick tresses. The careful way she applies makeup to her pretty face. The small frown turning into a smile as she decides on the right color for her nails.

I prefer her natural look but I always enjoy watching her, unseen, as she gets dolled up.

Though I know she's not doing it for me, but for him. I turn away as my jealousy flares up, and head back to the couch.

Does she still love me?

It hurts. I close my eyes, focusing on soothing memories.

My life changed the day I met her. She seemed so happy. We both were. The more we got to know each other, the harder it was to spend even a short time apart. Back then, it was just the two of us. The rest of the world did not matter - we needed nothing and nobody else. I thought it would never change.

The bedroom door opens, breaking me out of my reverie. Still wearing her bathrobe, she rushes to the kitchen, making the first of several trips to and fro. Watching the oven. Looking for something to wear. Setting the table. Trying on a couple outfits.

She is doing her best to please him. I hope he appreciates the effort. I wish I was enough for her. But she would be unhappy without him. Or me. I never want to see her hurt. I know what it's like.

It's her turn to pace. Waiting. She notices my eyes on her and takes a few steps closer.

"What do you think?" she asks with a smile on her beautiful face.

Her wedding ring catches the light as she does a short twirl, displaying her outfit. High heels that look uncomfortable, but show off her bare legs. Little short black dress with spaghetti straps.

The

little black dress.

Just then the front door opens and she hurries to him. I retreat to the guest room, but can't help looking back at them.

He's barely taken one step inside when she throws herself at him. He catches her in his strong arms, her feet dangling a few inches above ground as they embrace fiercely. As soon as he lets her down, she drags him inside. Kicking the door shut, she flings her arms around his neck and drags his face down to hers for a long, soulful kiss.

They act as if they have not seen each other in years. Feels too soon to me.

I pace in the small dark room, where I don't have to see them, can't hear them. I hope he won't stay the night. Small chance.

Think about something else.

The old place. I miss it. Better a tiny apartment for two than a house for three. No guest room back then. Only our room, our bed. Our love.

What are they doing back there? The question echoes silently for a moment before curiosity gets the better of me. Despite the old saying, I decide to go for a quick look.

Their greeting at the door seems over, and the living room is empty. Faint voices come out of the kitchen. I sneak closer. I can hear the click of her heels on the tiles and the clink of silverware, now. They chitchat as she serves dinner, happiness clear in their voices.

I know I'm welcome to join them - she would like me to. But I'd rather not. Not in a sociable mood, tonight. Nor hungry. I slip away before they see me and leave their laughs behind. Back into the dark and quiet room.

Time for another nap. And who knows? Maybe when I wake up, he'll be gone.

Ah, the sweet oblivion of dreamless sleep...

Sometime later, music sneaks up on me from the partly open door. Washes over my sleeping form, nudging me awake. I don't know how long I slept. Let's go find out.

They're on the couch, talking quietly. The light is as soft as the singer's smoky voice.

Big Monster...

Big Monster Lover...

They're sitting very close, facing each other. His arm on the back of the couch, fingers caressing her bare shoulder ; her fingers toying absently with his shirt. Their words too soft for anyone else to hear, as they gaze into each other's eyes. Like lovers do.

Takes a lot to remain silent, motionless. Takes a lot to turn my back and leave them alone.

As the minutes pass, the guest room seems smaller, the walls taller. I can't sleep so I pace. Door to window, bed to wall. Trying not to think - too much. I stay inside as long as I can. Then stay some more.

Not sure how much time has passed when I realize there's no more music. I peer out. No one in sight, only silence.

I notice something on the couch, and recognize his shirt as I step closer. A trail of clothes leads away from the empty living room and into the master bedroom.

I can't help but follow.

His shoes first, then her dress. I pause for a moment to feel the soft material, her warmth lingering ; to smell her sweet perfume, her body. His thick belt next, along with her high heels. Her silky bra hanging from the door knob, as if to warn me out.

But the door is slightly open. I hesitate. Noises reach out to me. I stop at the very edge of the room and glance inside, silent.

I can't see much at first, so I listen. Whispers then quiet laughs. Groans and gasps and sighs. Skin rubbing on skin, bedsheets rustling, breaths shared. The dark bedroom is filled with the unmistakable scent of their coupling, the heat from their intimacy.

She rises up, her back to me, as moonlight filters in through the window. She rides her lover with slow intensity, then wild passion, then shuddering pleasure. Her ivory skin seems to soak up the pale light, shadows dancing around her with her every move. Her dark mane is a gentle whip on her shoulders, a soft caress on her face.

I can't take my eyes away from her, mesmerized. I only realize I squeezed through the door when I'm halfway to the bed and notice her panties between my legs. I have to suppress a moan at the heady smell of her lust on the thin material.

Engrossed in their passion, they do not notice my intrusion.

I could watch her for hours.

But his arms reach up, caressing her body. His hands on her hips, her back. Her chest.

The spell is broken. I should not be here. She does not like me to intrude on her privacy. I step away slowly, still facing her. Her stealthy adorer for a moment longer.

I leave them together, on the bed I usually share with her, and go lie down on the couch, dragging her dress with me. At least I can sleep with that much of her. I close my eyes, trying to forget, but sleep is a long time coming. Three times her long passionate cries reach me, tormenting me, dragging me away from slumber, before darkness finally takes me.

Does she still love me?

I wake up to morning daylight and quiet, homey sounds. Her bare feet on the floor, water boiling, window blinds pulled open. I stretch lazily but don't open my eyes, not even when she sits down on the couch armrest.

She's silent and so am I. She alternates between stirring and sipping her coffee. I give her the silent treatment.

"He's gone," she finally speaks up. "On the road again..."

I look up. She's sitting with her bare legs crossed, wearing his shirt from the night before, staring off into space with a forlorn look on her face. I don't like seeing her like this.

She looks at me with a weak smile. "It's not easy being a trucker's wife, Whiskers" she sighs, running her fingertips through my fur.

I recognize my name. Apologies, most likely.

After a moment I climb up and curl up on her lap. Feels like coming home. Even his smell on the shirt does not bother me - much. I purr in quiet contentment as she runs her fingernails through my fur, scratching me from the top of my head to the base of my tail.

"What would I do without you?" she coos, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

She's already forgiven, I realize. I could never hold a grudge against her for very long.

Besides I know she loves me as best she can.

And I love her too.