When I come out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and sit perched on the end of the bed as I wait for her. My hair is still wet and skin still damp.
It's late. I reach across to switch on the bedside light, its glow only half lighting the room. As I do it, I notice his picture on the table. He is staring back at me, smiling.
She must have put it there since the last time I was in this room. A reminder. Some sort of comfort. Maybe just to reinforce a sense of him in this room. Their room.
She has told me she wants me to sleep in here tonight. She doesn't want to feel alone. She doesn't go further than that. She never does. Maybe she can't. It's enough for her to tell me that she is afraid of the loneliness, like a child afraid of the dark.
I think about tomorrow, wishing it was already over and done with. It is less than a week since my twenty second birthday. We didn't really mark it though. I suppose it's not the time for that. I know that will change eventually. Perhaps tomorrow it will begin to feel different.
I look up and she is standing in the doorway, watching me. I stare back at her without speaking. Since this started, we haven't articulated it in words. It's not about words.
She is wearing black. A satin gown, loosely tied at the waist. Sheer black stockings that cling to the soft roundness of her thighs. I know that she has worn them for me. For this. It helps us both find that place in our mind that we want to be.
She is 43 years old and too young for a day like tomorrow. She is still beautiful. Slim. Long black hair and warm, dark eyes. Just lately, it has occurred to me that she is a little shorter in height than me. It's been that way since my teens, but I just didn't register it until these last few weeks. Maybe that's because of the way our roles in each other's lives have changed now.
She sits down next to me on the bed. Her hand feels soft as she touches my cheek. I want to tell her that she looks beautiful, because she does. There is just a suggestion of a smile in acknowledgement of my gaze, but no more. No words.
Her lips are gentle as they touch mine, her fingers still touching my cheek. My mother's kiss.
Slowly, her fingers trace the contours of my skin as they mark a route down over my neck and chin. I experience the luxury of her touch as she feels her way across my neck and shoulders.
Our kiss deepens gradually. Tongues touch. They flicker and play momentarily as we explore the intimacy.
The palm of her hand presses over my chest and stomach as she moves it down my body, still warm and damp from my shower. Her tongue roams through my mouth as she undoes the fold of the towel.
Her fingers caress. The tips barely connecting as she draws them over me. I feel the sensation as she moves them over my erection. I shudder as they touch the head of my penis, already leaking and wet. Our mouths twist lovingly as she circles my cock with her hand.
I breathe in her scent as her mouth leaves mine and her hair sweeps delicately past my face. She smells of perfume and cigarettes. Her palms rest on the tops of my thighs as she lowers herself to her knees. I stay still, looking down at the top of her head as she slips carefully down between my legs.
