Love Short Story – Unfaithful
Photo credit: anitapeppers from morguefile.com
Sometimes, he really hated himself.
She looked up at him with hurt, brown eyes. Doe eyes. Always so full of soft hurt and pained accusations and vulnerable sadness.
He wanted her to swear at him and leave red handprints on his cheek. He wanted her to slam doors and fling the blue patterned crockery at his head. He wished she would slam the door behind her and key his car on her way out. He wished she would give her wedding ring to a homeless guy on the streets and refuse to answer his calls.
But instead she just looked at him. Eyes begging him to tell her a lie. Just a lie, nothing more.
He stared up at the ceiling, the popcorn grains suddenly fascinating. He ran his hand roughly through his hair and down his sweaty neck. Come on darling, he begged, Classic guilty behaviour. Figure it out. He didn’t want to look her in the eye as she gutted him with her desire to believe him, believe in him. He didn’t want to look her in the eye as he broke that trust, lie by f**king lie.
He wanted her to leave him. It would be best for her. With another man, she wouldn’t have to sit alone on her white sofa, wringing her hands while she waited for her husband to come, knowing fully well that he’d stumble through the doorway too late for dinner. If she left him, she wouldn’t have to cringe into herself when she saw his mussed white shirt (the one she had starched and ironed that morning). She would never have to smell the lingering scent of expensive women’s perfume as she put two and two together. She never wore perfume- She was too wholesome and good and bright to need it. If she were a stronger woman, she would never have to listen to his half- assed excuses.
“Darling, there was a work crises. My boss was so grateful when I fixed it.” “Darling, we have a new product coming out next weekend. I have to fly out on Friday. I’ll be back by Tuesday.” “Darling there’s no one else.”
She would never have to smile that close-lipped, forced smile- pretending she was too dumb to realise what was going on.
And as he went through his litany of excuses, he wanted her to scream at him, pound at him with tiny fists, rage at him to “Just stop. Just stop with all your bullsh*t.”
She needed to realise that she deserved so much better. That she didn’t need to stick with a cheating rat ba**ard who kept letting her down with lipstick stained shirt-collars and late nights out.
She needed someone she could trust because he worked from home. Someone who would take her out to classy dinners because he had the burning desire to show her off instead of burning guilt. Someone who would sprint her out on long weekends to Swiss chalets and chocolate spas instead of his mistress of the month.
He didn’t know how to be anything other than a disappointment, and the sooner she understood it, the better off she would be. He was tired of tiptoeing on a tightrope of lies and betrayal. Sooner or later, she would cut her losses and walk away. And the longer he walked on the sharp edge, the more confident he became that he could keep this up forever. Which was stupid because he knew that she deserved so much better and she was smart enough to figure it out. He wanted her to cut the cord. Snip. He wanted it to be sooner rather than later.
But she listened patiently to the steaming bullsh*t that came out of his lips. She didn’t flinch when he reached out to smooth his hands over the creamy skin on her arms. She looked up at him with those beautiful, trusting, beautiful eyes and he couldn’t bring himself to say, “I cheated on you. I’m sorry.” Couldn’t bring himself to decimate the romantic light in her eyes.
He waited for her to push him away as he leaned in to steal a kiss from her down-turned lips. She tasted wholesome and sweet, like strawberry ice-cream. Too innocent to be corrupted by a man who craved the darker taste of wild cherry now and then. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. “Leave me. I don’t deserve someone as good as you.” He wanted to reveal himself as a despiscable, tangled mess of black deception and justified self-loathing. Someone who had tainted her just by sharing the same air as she did- never mind the sham of intimacy he had tricked her into.
But the words stuck in his throat. Because if she left with her clean air scent and inherent goodness, then he would be left in a depressing quagmire of darkness and sadness. If she left, he would drown in a pool of pathetic anger. If she left, as she should, he would never recover.
He needed her. He needed her more than she needed him.
The thought spurred him on to deepen the kiss, make it more possessive. See, there’s a reason you like me. The thought felt desperate and pathetic in his head. I can be good. I can be better. Even worse but if he was lying to her, he needed to be honest to himself- Even if he would have preferred a kind lie to a harsh truth.
His hands- around her bare shoulders, over the smooth skin of her back, grasping around her thighs. Their tongues wrestled each other, simultaneously fierce and gentle. You’re mine. He clumsily pushed her down the hallway, kicking the white door aside and shoving her passionately onto the bed. Their lips never left each others. I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.
She tangled her hands everywhere. His clothes, his hair, his heart. As he moved to cover her, he paused to murmur in her ear. “So sorry.” He trailed hot, wet kisses down her neck, over her shoulder, further downward. “Never again.” he vowed to her soft skin.
And he was so sorry, sorry beyond words, that she didn’t sit up puzzled and confused to ask “What for?”
He broke a bit in her arms as she tried to make him whole again. He broke because it was so, so wrong. It really should have been the other way around.
__END__
