You had moved of out our shared room and into the spare one. Those steps of a mere few yards were in themselves a acknowledgement of the seismic shift in our world. A fracture in the very fabric of our universe and a tear in our hearts. Until that point we had spent twenty two hours a day in each other’s company. Working, parenting, living together and alongside each other had been our preference as long as we had known each other.
For twenty two years it was enough, we were enough.
At night we had slept conjoined, my toe seeking your toe even on the hottest of evenings. My need for your closeness, for the endless reassurance of your physical presence was matched by yours. Sleeping face to face. Breathing each other’s breath. Marvelling at how we fitted. We just fitted.
How did it change? When did it change to feeling stifled by that insistent nudge and search beneath the bed linen instead of being beloved? I can hardly bear to look, to check back to see and yet I know it happened as I tried to open up, to take up more space and not to be confined to the edges of my own bed in my own house,or in my own mind.
The need didn’t disappear though. It asserted itself most eagerly in the morning. Leading me to answer your knock at my door with a dripping cunt to seal your mouth to me. Watching your face, all angled cheekbones and strawberry blonde hair like a country boy disappear under my bouncing breasts as I rode you mercilessly – willing you to fuck me with your tongue, to lick me to a place of oblivion. Somewhere where we could be joined again, even for a moment, as your hand grasped a cock harder than it could ever be with me under you with our eyes locked. You looking for my fidelity, me wondering which particular flavour of you would you be wearing that day.
I would come, I could always come when I was on top. Shuddering and juddering with the attempt to keep connected, to let myself climb the wave generated by the heat that began just above my pubic bone. Allowing just the top edge of my cries to scrape out through gritted teeth as my juices plastered your face. Drenching the pillows I would sleep alone on that night. You, jerking and bucking beneath me. Eyes tightly shut against a cleareyed girl and her gaze, hurling yourself toward your own cliff as we used each other in a parody of our connection – want me, need me like you used to, like we used to.
Like we used to.
It would end the same way as it began. In silence. With you letting yourself out of my room, a desultory breakfast and lonely drive to our shared offices. Offices that were empty of your presence as you ran away from the reality of a ravaged world.
Our dead-eyed staff wondering how long I could hold it all together for as they listened to the sound of the track I played on endless repeat to bolster myself against the inevitability of the failure that was about to engulf all of us. ‘Clap along if you feel that happiness is for you….’ And to the gaps where I sobbed and keened for loss and in bereavement and abject fear of what would happen to us all.
Over time there was a subtle shift in the dynamic. I would visit you in the morning, looking out of a different window with an unfamiliar view. In a room neatly organised and not disrupted by my clothes,my books, or my collections of pebbles and shells from beaches I loved. I would use your tongue, ride your face, place your hands on my tiny pink nipples and if you didn’t do it sufficiently fast or hard replace them with my own fingers. I sought my own orgasm and not our connection. I would come and leave. On what was our ladt morning I shut the door quietly behind me after tucking back under the pillow the book about how to have a good divorce.
My world had shattered.
I was in pieces.
I could not use us to pull us together again anymore.