Page 1 of David's Chase

1

LIZ

I must’ve sleptfor hours, maybe days.

That’s how it feels when awareness seeps back into my brain and my surroundings slowly come into focus.

The austere motel walls, the small space, and the bed, which is not exactly bad, yet not too comfortable either.

The bathroom door slightly open, with a flicker of light sneaking through.

The memory comes back to me like a blast of wind, rattling my soul before the stack of money on the nightstand catches my attention.

I move my stare back to the bathroom door and simply listen, still holding out hope he’s here with me.

Not gone.

Not sleeping in some lavish hotel suite downtown.

My heart beats faster as my mind puts him in the bathroom, shirtless, running a strong hand through his hair, a towel hanging low on his muscular hips. His blue eyes trained on the mirror. His stare blank, or maybe filled with dirty thoughts,primal satisfaction, hungry anticipation, and more lusting after my body.

He got what he wanted.

The money on the nightstand attests to that, the lingering pleasure in my body proof of that.My thoughts connected to that.

And for a second… I wonder.

Does it feel different now that we have done it this way?

Is this the end of us?

Of how we were?

Is this a milestone? A crossroads? A new chapter?

Are we getting closer or farther away from the truth?

But what if he stares in the mirror and something feels off as he studies himself with a critical eye, and a persistent, almost irritating‘what if’takes up residence inhis mind?

And instead of the satiating physical pleasure, a dull pain throbs in his chest, making him notice, perhaps for the first time, the void where happiness once used to pulse?

Or what if he looks in the mirror with the eyes of someone who is no longer a stranger to me? Because I’m no longer a stranger to him.

What if he was…again… David, my fictional husband? And we just had make up sex in a motel, away from our beautiful home?

Maybe we wanted to forget about our problems by dipping deep into each other, letting our bodies talk, and tasting that magnificent high only our flesh could give us.

Perhaps we fought over nothing in our big, soulless house before he followed me here to make sure I wasn’t meeting someone else or encountering some terrible fate.

Maybe he was jealous or angry or both, and we initially hate fucked because we couldn’t ignore the argument we had before.

Or maybe we had sex, and things felt so much better, the tension morphing into nothing, the argument dimming away.

And here we are now.

I’m lying on the bed, sore between my legs, my fictional husband alone in the bathroom, thinking about me, weighing his options.

Pondering whether to come back and fuck me slowly or grab his clothes, put them on, and walk out like we’ve never run into each other in this lifeless, grayish motel room.

---