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The lengths a man will go to for love.
A short (at least for me) tale of love and loss.
I agonized over what category to submit this story under. I chose Loving Wives. I hope by the end you understand why. I'll understand if you castigate me.
This is an entry in the 2013 Valentine's Day contest.
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Alan sat in the near-dark, alone in the large empty house. Sorry excuse for a fire struggling in the fireplace, providing the lone illumination. Half a bottle of Gentleman Jack in his right hand, the damning piece of paper in his left.
He wished he could burn it. Turn back time. Take a mulligan.
Life doesn't work like that.
He took a swig of the bourbon, brusquely rubbing his hand across his eyes.
Fifty years old. Married exactly half his life. Maybe that's the way these things were supposed to work. Twenty-five years of maturing, twenty-five years of wedded bliss, then whatever's left, a living hell.
Something had to balance the scales. He had been the luckiest man in the world. No way a man who'd had the life he'd had wouldn't roll snake eyes one day.
Twenty five years, silver anniversary. They'd worked for their future, planned carefully, never living beyond their means, raising the kids - thank God they were grown and out of the house before this - building for their retirement.
As if he had any kind of future now.
Alan looked at the clock and braced himself. He stood shakily and put away the booze. He took the piece of paper in his hand, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the fireplace.
Tuesdays and Thursdays. She'd be back soon. Worn out and trying to hide it. Disheveled, sweaty, exhausted, she'd greet him, hiding behind her mask. He'd have to wear his own. A little longer, until he'd decided what he was going to do.
* * *
Becca tried to maintain the pretense. She smiled as his arms wrapped around her clutching her. He stunk, stale sweat, cigarette smoke, garlic breath. Writhing sensually, as if she enjoyed his body pressed against hers.
It had been fun at first, a diversion, a way to kick up her heels after 25 years of being a Mom. Alan didn't know. Couldn't know. Her little secret.
She felt guilt. She had it all. The stay-at-home Mom, raising their three, beautiful, brilliant children. He worked hard to give them what they needed, while she provided the secure home environment, mother, housekeeper, chauffeur, lover. She understood some women chafed under the roles, but she thrived.
First David's graduation, then Carrie's, finally her baby Josh moving out almost 7 months ago. She found herself lonely, at loose ends, while her husband, her soul-mate buried himself in work. She understood, he was working for them. Their future. Still, she'd felt the first cracks in her perfect world in nearly twenty-five years. What do they say about 'idle hands'?
She looked up and smiled as Randy drew her close, hands, familiar with her body, sliding down her back. She reacted, her first genuine smile.
"God, Becca, if you weren't married..." he started, as he so often did.
"But I am, and I love my husband."
"But we're perfect together," he reminded her, taking control.
She sighed, allowing him, following his movement, for a brief moment enjoying what she was doing. His rigid hardness pressing into her, pressing back against it, feeling his desire for her.
He was right, for those few minutes they were perfect. But that was all. She had no desire for anything more from the handsome man. It was exciting to know he felt otherwise, but this was all he'd ever get.
She drove those thoughts from her mind, living in the moment.
* * *
He was himself again, when she got home. He asked her how Bridge night was. She smiled.
"The usual, gossip, husband trashing, too much wine."
He nodded. He returned his attention to his book, thinking about what he was going to do. He had the beginnings of a plan. A desperate plan, but these were desperate times.
She walked up the stairs, taking a second glance at him. Something wasn't right. She paused, her gaze lingering. He was in his usual chair, the book open in front of him, but she realized now he wasn't reading. He was staring at the page, eyes unmoving, attention elsewhere.
She continued to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes, climbing into the shower to wash the stink off.
Alan heard the water running. Thursday night. When it started she'd be excited after 'Bridge' night. They'd make love, and it was like it had been years before. She was still a striking woman, not classically beautiful, but with that tall slender body that aged so well, legs that could still make his heart beat fast. To Alan, she was beauty personified.
For the last couple of months, she'd clean up and retreat to the bed, exhausted, fending off any attempts to be amorous.
He sat in his chair, hardening his heart to what he had to do.
* * *
Becca wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. Not when he was near. She laid there, wondering how it had gotten to this point. Nearly a month since he'd taken her in his arms and made sweet love to her. Loved her like only he could.
Their love life had always been one of the strengths of their relationship. They seemed in perfect tune with each other. After their last child had left the nest, for several weeks they'd been like teenagers in love, desperate for each other, taking advantage of their freedom.
She could admit to herself she was partially to blame. For the first time in their marriage, he'd wanted more than her. She'd begged off a few times, especially after her nights out. A few times she'd gone along, but they both realized she was doing it for him, without the desire.
He'd started making excuses of his own. Upset stomach one night. A series of headaches. She'd spent more time away from the house, late afternoons and evenings, with the other empty-nesters. He'd worked late, putting in extra hours, travelling more.
She'd been hurt, devastated to learn that one of his 'business' trips was anything but. How did he really think he could hide it? Wives talked, and she was friends with many of his peers. There had been no 'business'. He had take personal time, and gone away for three days. He'd called daily, telling he what he was up to, the meetings he was attending. He told her how me missed her each night, and how much he loved her.
Lies. All lies.
He'd been upset when he returned, guilty no doubt. She didn't demand an explanation, call him on it. She let the doubt gnaw away, but she couldn't imagine a life without him. She knew he loved her, and she loved him. The hurt was devastating. When he turned to take her in his arms, in the bed, she turned away. How could he cheat on her? How could he?
* * *
Alan sat in his office staring at the phone. He couldn't put it off any longer. He'd made up his mind, as painful as the decision was. He knew it was the right thing to do. He'd gone over his options several times. He hated the solution, but he had no choice.
His life was over. Their life was over. Twenty-five years. His heart swelled as he thought back over those years. He'd lived a charmed life. He realized he'd had more joy than any man deserved.
He closed his eyes, remembering their honeymoon. Neither of them were virgins, but the amount of their experience was laughable. That week was the best of his life, with his new wife. They were open with each other about their fears and concerns. They took things slow to start, and learned together, from each other. By the end of the week, they almost never left their room except to eat. Alan couldn't get enough of her incredible body. To this day, he could remember the sound of her passion. He could get hard, just thinking about it.
He picked up the phone and called
her
. Dinner at the Hilton, and a room for afterward. His heart was pounding and his hands sweating as he hung up.
There. No turning back.
He wasn't a perfect man. He'd done things that he was ashamed of in the past, took liberties he shouldn't have. Never with the intention to hurt, and rarely with the same woman twice. This was different.
Alan knew she'd be out when he called home, avoiding talking to her directly. He left a message, telling her he'd be late, and had a dinner meeting with a client.
He told Sandra his assistant that he had a late meeting, and would be out of the office by 4:00 pm. She managed his calendar and knew there was nothing scheduled, but she accepted his word. Must be new business, or some old friend. Sandra had worked for him nearly nine years now. She knew him almost as well as his wife.
He waited in the lobby and saw her walk through the door. Stunning, much younger than himself, catching the eye of ever man as she walked through the doors. Her eyes were scanning the large open space, and stopped on him. A beautiful smile beamed at him, and she walked his way, hands outstretched.
"You're beautiful," he said softly.
"You're sweet. Dinner?"
"And drinks. Dancing if you'd like."
"You know we don't have to do this. I'd be just as happy going upstairs with you right now."
He slid his arm around her waist, heedless of any prying eyes. "No rush tonight. Dinner first."
"I'd love to."
In the hotel room, a couple of hours later, Alan was nervous. She was standing before him, making a show of disrobing. Her body was a thing of wonder. Large breasts he could see himself getting lost in. He never would say a word to his wife, he loved her small age-defying breasts, but he sometimes wished for more. Amber's tits were dreamlike. Large, full, natural, begging for his touch.
They didn't talk much, didn't need to. They both knew what this was about. He felt guilty about what he was doing, then buried those feelings. He was going to do this, and damned if he wasn't going to at least try to enjoy it.
Amber made sure he did. She made it as good for him as she could. Doing anything he desired, willingly, happily. She saw his hesitation and nervousness evaporate, and let herself go as he took her for the third time, powerfully, in control for the first time that evening.
He escorted her to the door when they were done. She gave him a kiss and told him to call her soon. He promised he would.
He closed the door and laid on the bed, mourning the end of his marriage.
She was nervous, but no more so than I. The lights were turned down low, and she was under the covers, the open side of the bed had the bedding turned down neatly.
