I'm standing here, staring into the mirror, no bullshit between me and what I see. A middle-aged redhead looks back--hair wild like a damn fire around a face that's laughed plenty and swallowed more than its share of quiet hurts.
My 32C breasts hang soft, no fancy bra, nipples still perky enough to catch my eye, tugging me back to when Dave couldn't keep his hands off me. Now they've got that soft give, proof l've let myself go a little.
Stretch marks crisscross my belly and hips, faded lines from popping out kids, and my nails and toes, painted coral, shine like some sad little trophy from when I cared enough to doll up for him.
My backside's drooping some, curves gone fuzzy from years of putting everyone else first and forgetting myself. Those C-section scars-jagged little bastards across my gut
--remind me of the kids, the pain, the whole damn deal.
Even down there, that red patch, all natural and messy, glistens when I shift, a raw reminder of who l used to be.
Being a wife, a mom--it ate up everything I wanted for myself. Dave barely looks at me anymore, and it's this empty pang, like l've been pouring myself out till there's nothing left. When did I stop seeing myself as something hot, something alive, instead of just this tired shell?
But standing here, naked and real, I can't ignore it-these marks, these scars, those damn painted nails-- they're mine. They've got stories: every time I gave too much, every ache | buried, every day I kept going.
Even with Dave's cold shoulder, something's twitching inside me, a low throb between my legs, like maybe this beat-up body's still got a pulse, still got a shot at wanting something again.
The house is too big now, too quiet-ghosts of kid noise bouncing off the walls, back when I had a purpose.
I can't even remember the last time Dave and me tangled up proper, or when he made me shake and see stars--hell, if he ever did. These days, it's just me giving him a quick handjob every so often, tugging him off to take the cranky edge off, like fixing a creaky door with a squirt of oil.
Dave's a robot: eggs at seven, TV at eight, snores by ten. We sleep in the same bed, but there's a canyon between us, like we've both just given up on anything more.
I can't even pinpoint when he stopped caring, or when I stopped waiting for him to.
Then Sunday hits, and Pastor John's yammering about helping the down-and-out gets under my skin. Church is putting together a crew for the homeless shelter, and I throw my name in, needing something-anything-to plug this hole in me.
First day, l'm a mess-spooning out soup, faking smiles for rough faces, praying nobody like Mary Beth from the prayer group notices how my hands shake.
The place stinks of old coffee and sweat-soaked shirts, but it's real, alive, and it shakes me out of my fog.
That's when Jerome rolls in. Guy's a damn wall-tall, wide, all muscle and menace. Skin dark as midnight, eyes like knives cutting right through me, stripping me bare with a glance.
He moves slow, cocky, like he owns the place, and it's scary as hell but kind of pulls you in-makes my pulse jump low and dirty. I shove a bowl at him, hands jittery, and he grunts,
"Thank you, ma'am," voice low and thick, rattling my bones, vibrating
straight to my core.
My neck goes hot, my thighs clench, and I don't know why-what if someone saw me flush like this?
The shelter turns into my lifeline, somewhere I'm not just Dave's leftovers or a mom nobody needs, but every shift I'm glancing over my shoulder, terrified Pastor John or sweet little Ellen from Sunday school will catch the way Jerome stares.
He's always lurking, big as a damn ox, those eyes pinning me like I'm dinner, like he can smell the want leaking out of me.
Starts small-his meaty fingers brushing mine when I hand over a plate, thumb dragging slow, rough calluses scraping my skin, lighting me up inside till I'm throbbing under my skirt.
