Page 68 of Beyond our Forever

Stupid no sex rule.

I approach the bed, feeling as if I’m walking on clouds, then my husband grabs me and throws me on it, stretching his body over mine.

“Tonight I’m going to do whatever I want with you,” he warns me. “Because, baby, I was made to fuck you, to love you.”

“Bruce…”

“That beautiful mouth has missed me,” he whispers, putting his lips, his tongue and even his teeth to work. “I’m going to kiss you wherever I want, for as long as I want.”

His name leaves my lips, half groaning, half begging.

He’s consuming me, dragging me down, plunging me deeper and deeper under his spell.

And I don’t care.

Yes!

“Bruce!”

???

“I can’t believe you’re actually questioning my word,” Emilia yells into the phone when I call her.

It’s barely eleven on Sunday morning, and although it might seem criminal to interrupt her sleep, I really don’t care as we need to sort this out and we need to do it now.

Besides, I have to take advantage of having a moment alone, while Bruce and the kids take our little sailboat out of the shed. They had gotten in their heads that the day is perfect for sailing.

My three men prepared a snack together. Jelly and peanut butter sandwiches, sure, but they wouldn’t complain. Everything that comes from his hands will taste like heaven.

“Bruce’s explanation checks out, Emilia.” I have no reason to doubt his word, because whatever his faults, my husband has never lied to me.

“But he abandoned you,” she replies, her voice full of bitterness. “He left you alone, he has made you feel worthless.”

“My husband loves me,” I jump to his defense, because it’s the truth.

“What a beautiful thing that love must be, for him to find solace with another woman.”

“This isn’t your problem.”

“Of course it is, you’re my friend and I care about you. You should start checking his credit card statements, find out what’s really been going on behind your back.”

Of course I am not going to do that.

Emilia has to learn to keep her mouth shut if she wants us to remain friends.

“You’re just going to have to respect my decision and step aside. Bruce and I are trying this.”

“You really are a blind fool,” she says bitterly. “I’m going to get evidence and when I throw it in your face, we’ll see who’s right, Ilythia. Have a nice Sunday.”

And with this the call ends, without letting me say anything else, without saying goodbye.

It’s my life, yet she is the one who is outraged?

Feeling the need to talk to someone, I start searching the internet for stories of people who have been or are going through circumstances like ours and who have come through it. Sometimes all you need is to listen to the pain of others to begin understanding your own. I think it’s the way support groups work. Suddenly the idea of therapy doesn’t seem so farfetched to me.

One page leads to another, a question leads me to a forum, a blog, a link. I get lost in other people’s stories, some heartfelt, some discouraging, all very emotional. Others, the hardest to read, are full of hatred for their despised former lovers, full of poison and bitterness for what they have lost. I try to ignore them, but masochist that I am, I always end up reading a few lines.

In the end, I get to the blog of a woman a little older than me, who writes about her experience overcoming her husband’s death and not only that, also overcoming the fact that two days after her funeral, a woman appeared at her home. A woman with a son on each arm, claiming that she was the rightful widow.

---