* This chapter contains no sexual content. Please skip it if that's what you're looking for.
Thank you for reading and giving your constructive critiques; they're welcomed.
Chapter 3
The street hummed along under the coasting tires. Ethan cautiously navigated his way through traffic, missing four potholes – to his count – and keeping adequate space between himself and the other jackasses on the road. Usually patient, it was often shocking for passengers to see the rageaholic he morphed into while amidst--in his words--"Moronic assholes."
Tiffany, still grinning after his latest out-burst, asked, "What do you do for fun, Ethan? And I don't mean, giddy-laughing fun, but relaxing-unwinding fun." Apparently it was her attempt to take his mind off the driver that had just cut him off.
Ethan kept a hand on the steering wheel and peered out the side window, checking the mirror. "I like to get alone in a quiet, secluded place and fish usually," he said. "But this time of year, it's hard to find moments like that for myself, so I don't relax much." He turned on his signal and moved over to the slower lane. "I have a lot that demands my attention: The way my team is playing, what team we're up against next and how well prepared we are for them, who, if any, are injured and what positions need replaced . . . the stress of my wife with her job and the million things screaming for her attention--which somehow gets brought to my attention too." He paused momentarily thinking about that. "As if I could do anything about it. But then again, I guess that is the role of a good husband, huh? Keeping up with the goings-on of your spouse and being her shoulder to lean on or cry on . . . sometimes scream in frustration at."
"You are a good man, Ethan. And no doubt a good husband." She reached over and grabbed his shoulder. "But you do need to make time for yourself, too." She squeezed him. "Do something
you
want to do. Find something that relaxes you, that allows you to just breath for a few minutes. It doesn't have to be anything grand or require a lot of time. Just something that reinvigorates you. You need it." Then whispering, "You deserve it."
The warmth of her hand felt like it was branding itself through his shirt and into his skin. He stole a quick look at her bright eyes, her sincere smile, and knew she meant every word. She was truly concerned for him.
Wow! It's amazing how a person can change from a stranger to friend.
"You're right. I do let too much build up on me--in me--and I probably should do a little more and think a little more for myself."
"Yes, you should." She nodded. Her hand still softly squeezing him.
No one said anything for a moment and the car filled with silence.
When it seemed to reach its peak, she awkwardly withdrew her hand and set it in her lap. Rubbing it as if she had been stung. She turned her head and faced out the window.
The flurry of emotion battering Ethan's gut left him incapable of deciphering anything. Body language, thought, expression, nothing. He was able to make out the absence of her hand's warmth, however, and the seemingly palpable mark it left on his shoulder.
He found himself wanting to have it back. To have her hand placed right where it was before she removed it. He wanted to feel her mass against his. Against the shoulder that now felt hollow, as if the joint had been removed. He recalled the way every finger of hers molded into him. The slow motion of her hand caressing his muscle. Her unbidden proximity.
Careful buddy. That's a slippery slope.
He kept his eyes forward and watched the road ahead as he tried to garner the substance and cause of his response, or lack thereof.
Should he be upset? Was it inappropriate?
No. That's nonsense. What is there to be upset about? What was so inappropriate about her grabbing my shoulder?
Should he tell her not to touch him anymore? That his wife would never allow another woman in the world to ever feel him, in any manner--physically or otherwise. That he was incapable of having another female's body, in any way, pressed against his own without him losing sense of all his inhibitions and fumbling into a lust-ridden state of carnality.
What are we, nine-year-old children? So what? She touched me. It was innocent. There was nothing to it and nothing meant by it.
He sparred back with himself.
Then why is it bothering you? Why are you having this conversation with yourself if you really believe there was nothing to it?
He wasn't sure.
Why did she linger?
But he was afraid to contemplate that one too long.
He knew. He knew deep down and he kept it shoved, deep down. He was brave enough to realize the truth and reality of his lust, but wasn't ready to take on the possibility of having her reciprocate it.
He cleared his throat, if for nothing more than to fill the air between them with some other noise than the spinning of the car's tires on pavement. He took a peek at Tiffany from the corners of his eyes, hoping she wasn't looking back. She wasn't. She was in a world to herself watching, most likely nothing, out the window. He tried to find something to say. Something to draw her attention back into the vehicle and let her know that everything was copacetic. He came up with nothing.
He pulled into their parking space and turned off the engine. He turned towards her, but before he could tell her to
"Have a good day",
