I pull up and you are getting something out of your minivan. Startled by my arrival, you look equally puzzled that Elemental is dropping me off (he had planned on going to the city for the night) but greet me with a hug, a bottle of wine in each fist as you embrace me. Your breath crystalizes like smoke in the winter air, your quick step asks me to fall in line and we trot to your front door like a couple of nervous horses. You open the door, the already familiar squeak of protest as we try to keep quiet; your babies are sleeping upstairs, afterall.
Into the kitchen, I find my familiar perch - up on the counter, and you are taking the wine I brought you in a poncy pink, black and white checked cloth bag with pearl handles from me. Seemed to suit your vaguely Jackie-O vibe you have going on at times. You exclaim over the wine; rarely treat yourself, it would seem, and the glug, glug of it hitting your mismatched wine glasses fills the silence.
Our first date? Or is it? Seven months later, and here we are, in your kitchen, both of our husbands aware of the context of our evening. You have lit a dozen candles and your house glows, a salad of wild greens and thick cut cremini mushrooms on the counter next to me. You talk rapidly, your sensual mouth rounding and stretching to tell me stories, ideas, happenings and jokes. Your hair has suddenly grown long, great swathes of it on your shoulders, layers cupping your ballerina jawbones and framing your wide open eyes. You are beautiful, and have that strange mix of knowing it, but taking it for granted enough that you forget it, and slide into your elegance like silk on skin. You cut steak, and make the observation that you seem to cook me red meat a lot; carnal and rich... makes sense to me. Our relationship seems to be mired in senses, rather than in the physical.
You cook, I sip, we talk and you tell me of your thoughts on Sync. It fascinates me - you have never really spoken about her outside of warning me of her presence in our marriage, and you have my full attention. You observe how she seems to really like dating other people's husbands. She is friends with the wife of the professor that Sync continues to sleep with (despite telling me that he was boring, pedantic, stiff, pretentious and bad in bed) and has come to the conclusion that it is just a little sad that she can't seem to manage a relationship of her own. I feel sad thinking about it, and speak to some of the hurt and upset that is still in my heart from that time in E & I's lives. I put on music from my rdio account on their ancient computer, hearing the whirr of an overtaxed fan and marvelling at the oldskool monitor that could shatter a storefront with one well aimed toss.
We eat at the table, and we are all smiles. Nerves. You are so beautiful. I'm allowed to touch you. But I don't. Too much conditioning? Too much holding back? I can't thrust physicality on you like a stranger when we are such good friends already - but you don't feel like my friend. It is an odd mix. I have never been on a proper date with a woman on my own like this before, and for some reason it makes me feel both masculine and feminine all at the same time. My sex is swollen between my legs; there is no denying the overwhelming attraction that exists for you inside of me, but I sip, savour the juxtaposition of the rich meat and fresh greens, the soft give of the mushrooms between my hard, white teeth.
Dinner is done, and like a good farmgirl I clear the table and give a quarter-hearted attempt at tidying up. You have moved to the couch, and I follow suit. We have footrubs on the menu, and both deliver. I've worn maroon leggings and a floral dress in browns, peaches and taupes, three quarter length sleeves. You're in jeans with careless tears in them filled with swatches of chainmail and a linen tanktop. Rubbing feet, talking about relationships, sex, your take on poly thus far, your family, your post partum depression. I touch the arches of your feet, your toes and your calf muscles, kneading and sliding my hands around the curves of your form. You are alight and laughing, alive and beautiful. I don't need more than this, and sink into the simplicity of two friends on a couch, of the unspoken desire that needs no rushing, no attention to exist. It just is.
Your husband comes home, and we move apart on the couch, but it isn't guilty this time. I have a quiet sense of everything being okay inside of me. I pour him a glass of wine and we talk for awhile in a group before he drives me home. I slipped up and call you baby once, but with a PhD in mathematics, I'm sure he had done his homework before then.
Home to Elemental, he teased me a little but with a twinkle in his eye. He likes to tease me because there is a beast in me that wants to strap on and go wild with her, but I act as though I'm taming a wild doe in the woods. And that's okay. I have gone fast in the past and it has crashed and burned.
Instead of trying to make my ideals a reality, I think I am better off making my reality the ideal.
Where you go... there you are.
Me: 35. TD, 43, my monogamous beau. Lily: 31, my lady/lover, in two other relationships. Mahogany: 38, my girlfriend, in one other relationship. Elemental: 44, my ex husband.
Last edited by BaggagePatrol; 01-26-2013 at 07:15 PM.