No, no; don’t worry – this wasn’t going against that thing her parents had taught her when she was a little girl. Admiring from afar; sending the buttons flying as she used her eyes to rip the shirt off his chest; and imagining in graphic detail the sweat trapped between their bodies during a steamy encounter in the nearest motel: even though she had never met the guy, she was sure none of these things qualified as “talking to strangers.”
He had slipped into her mind as easily and unnoticeably as something gets slipped into a drink. And just as dangerously too, because now that he was there, she couldn’t be held liable for irrational behavior.
Tiffany slid off her ring and set it gently on top of the dresser every night just before going to bed. She was a wife by day; dreamer, by night.
Okay so you’re married and I’m engaged, great. Now that we’ve got that straight – would you care to accompany me to my hotel room?
He liked to play Monopoly and she grew up playing Scrabble.
They knew they had different priorities, different dreams, and probably different futures, but for now they weren’t playing the game of Life – they were just having a little fun, savoring the taste of each other’s lips and the warmth of one another’s bodies here and now in the lust of the moment.
I touched myself for a bit, listening to the rumbling of the couple upstairs. Then I heard her scream and the thumping stopped.
As Abigail peered through the banisters at her older brother and his friends and listened to them discuss the latest technological breakthroughs in science and the most pressing current political dilemmas, she wondered why she hardly heard young ladies murmur words like those, but then she laid her eyes on one of her brother’s friends – standing there like Michaelangelo’s David, only broader, and with better posture, and muscles you could practically feel with your eyes and, speaking of eyes, his were constructed of cerulean velvet that matched the color of the sky just after the last sliver of sun has tucked itself under the horizon, leaving only the memory of daylight swirled around in a vast sea of everything that is mysterious about night. Abigail twirled a piece of hair around her finger, speculated as to whether or not this specimen of a man had seen her – noticed her – and then her heart took in a poisonous concoction of love, lust and adrenaline that sent her whirling with urgency back to her bedroom to divulge every last detail of the man she had just witnessed on her diary’s hungry, anticipating pages.
He may have slept in those bed sheets.
But Honey, I’m the one that made you change them.
When I think of you I miss you. When I’m with you, I miss myself.
I admire you for knowing when to walk away. But I despise you for actually doing so.
I just wish you took to me like you take to the 20 pack in your chest pocket. I crave for the day you wrap your lips around words, not a 3inch illuminated Marlboro.
She lay in bed, burying her head under the pillow, replaying the sensation of his fingers on her skin. Two weeks had passed and it would be fourteen more endless days before she saw him again.
Jeannie gave up brushing to be with her dentist: his earthy smell, the pressure of fingers in her mouth. Five root canals, and she can’t stop smiling.
Stricken by a sudden surge of carelessly uncalculated compassion, she allows her hand to crawl from the open pages of his history book to the now-developed ridges of his right arm. He smells the lavender fragrance of her long, blonde hair and it is not long before the media arrives in their howling chariots, handing out shovels for the community to bury them alive beneath the thick, boiling tar of shame and half-truths.
“Lust at first sight may be real, but love at first sight is a myth,” I said with self-assurance, to which my grandfather chuckled.
“I was smitten with your Grandma the moment I saw her,” he said with a grin, “and we been married over forty years… I’m fairly sure it ain’t been lust that’s kept us together.”