An Honest Conversation

“You still love him.” His voice was soft, I almost didn’t hear him.

My hand paused halfway to putting the plate on the place mat. I spun around to face him, his back was to me.

“Yes,” I said, trying to match the softness of his tone.

It was this conversation that had brought us to where we currently were, sitting at the table, eating in silence, neither meeting the eyes of the other.

“How long have you known?” he asked me tentatively.

I turned back to the table and put the plate down.

“Two years, really, give or take. I think I had a clue longer.”

He nodded.

You couldn’t hear anything except the scrape of the forks against the plate, cleaning off the rest of the gravy from our meal. Occasionally this was punctuated by the clinking of the ice in our glasses of water as one or both of us took a sip.

“How long have you known?” I asked back.

“Forever. Though I didn’t fully understand why you always seemed to be distracted, I finally put it together. I knew you loved him, I just didn’t know how much.” He still hadn’t turned around to face me.

“Why ask now?” I asked.

“Let’s eat, it’s done,” he said, as he spooned the rest of the steamed broccoli into a large bowl.

And so we sat, now that our plates had been cleaned. We still hadn’t looked at each other.

Finally, I spoke.

“I’m sorry, I just...I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Look, I should have talked to you about it before now. I haven’t exactly been content either. It’s not as though we both waited to find our true loves, is it? We were barely into our twenties when we got married,” he said bitterly, still not meeting my eyes.

How could he know how much guilt I felt about this, and try to rid me of it before we even started talking?

“I don’t even know what to say...” I tried again.

“Don’t, just...don’t,” he said, finally looking up to meet my eyes. “You’re my best friend! I should’ve been more sensitive to what you were feeling.”

“No. I completely disagree. I should’ve trusted you with what was actually going wrong.”

“It hasn’t all been a lie then, has it? It’s just this one thing.” His voice was so very delicate then, his words nervous, like a child trying to talk his way out of punishment.

“I never meant to hurt you.” Even to my ears it sounded cliché as it came out, but it was the truth.

“You haven’t really. At least no more than I have hurt you.” He took my hand as he said this.

“When did we stop trusting each other?” I asked gently, my hand covering his, his fingers stroking the hand he was already holding.

“I don’t know. Maybe we just never did trust each other with this sort of thing. We have both changed so much these past years, grown up and matured. Maybe we just haven’t figured out how to mature together...” his voice trailed off as he saw the tears in my eyes.

“I do love you, ya know. That hasn’t changed. I really love you so much.” I was really crying at this point. The snot had spontaneously appeared in my nose, and I started trying to wipe it and my tears off of my face.

“I love you too, babe. But there are some things that we just can’t change, huh?” he said, helping me to wipe the tears away.

I leaned in and kissed him then, and I felt his breath suck in quickly. Then he started kissing me back, the hand that was wiping my tears away reaching for my chin and cupping it fiercely.

“Why does love have to be so hard?” I asked plaintively against his lips.

“I don’t know, but just stop thinking for a moment. Let’s just do here and now...”

I knew he was right. There was a sort of desperation in our kiss, as our tongues met and his hand caressed my face. I stood up and straddled his lap in the dining room chair.

“Not here,” he mumbled against my lips, and stood, grabbing my hips so he didn’t push me over.

His lips not leaving mine, he pushed me slowly out of the dining room and into the living room, finally landing me on the ottoman, and shoving me up so my head was on the chair. He leaned over me, licking my tongue as though it was the last time he would ever feel this particular thing, and I have to say I felt something similar. I reached up and grabbed his short hair tightly in my grip.

“God, babe,” I murmured out, as his tongue and lips began to caress my jaw and down my neck.

He bit me softly, and both of our passions took over. There was no reason, no order, as we tore at each others clothes until both of us were naked.

And then he knelt there, in between my legs which were hanging off the ottoman.

“I love you too, you know. Whatever else happens now, I love you too.”

And then suddenly he was inside me, and I had never felt this from him before. It was slow, loving, with a rhythm that couldn’t even set cadence for a ballad from Cinderella. The friction of his in and out was almost overbearing, taunting, teasing me to something I had never felt with him before.

His hands were running trails up and down my ribs, to my hips, and then back up to my shoulders. Finally, he cupped my breasts lightly and then rubbed his thumbs over my nipples.

“Baby, yes!” I said, no longer in complete control of myself or my language. One of my hands went to my breast, grabbing his hand and shoving it down to my clit. The other hand was reaching underneath me to cup his scrotum, hoping to encourage him to move faster, harder, without having to actually think of and then verbalize the words.

He did so, and we were both panting with need, our hips driving each other into a further frenzy as he thrust into me and kneaded my breast, his thumb swirling slow circles over my clit; as I thrust back against him, my hands massaging his sack as I watched the passion and lust run over his face.

Finally, the force and pace of our lovemaking moving almost beyond the scope of that which we were capable, we both came, first myself, tensing and moving my hips rhythmically, my internal muscles alternately grasping and releasing him, and then he, responding to my internal constrictions and my obvious delight.

He collapsed against me then, his breath ragged against my breasts.

As I came back to myself I couldn’t help but voice the question that had been sitting in the back of my mind the whole time.

“So, was that a goodbye, then?” I tried to ask as gently, as non-judgmentally as possible.

“I don’t actually know,” he panted.

And then we both lay there, gathering enough energy to dress and move to the bedroom.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

cade: In a sense, most of my stories are connected. I have a set three characters that I play with. I suppose you could call it all alternate realities. What would happen, if these people ran into each other in different situations. Though all of their pasts are the same, how they meet is always different. I hope that helps explain it.

ree: Hopefully, you read my other stories and let me know how you feel. I write them because they tell me to. I feel good about them because I like them. I feel proud of them when others say to me, "yeah, I totally know what you are saying.". So, what I am saying is, please, if you read my other stories, let me know what you think. Are they better, are they worse? I really am interested in finding out. Every little bit helps me improve as an author.

Corrupted_Sara: Thank you. It makes me happy to know I touch people emotionally. I write so that I might, in some small way, eliminate a little bit of that feeling that we are all seperate beings, and that hopefully, a small portion of the people who read my stories may say "someone else does know how I feel." So if you felt that, and would like to know more about these characters, please read my other stories. They are all somewhat connected.

Thanks for reading, all of you! (even you lurkers. I love you guys too.)