White Stucco Walls


She stared at the mark on the wall as she listened to his voice on the
'phone. She really should do something to cover it. Paint the wall, hang a
picture there, move the sofa, something. It wasn't so bad when they still
had the leather sofa, the one that made the mark originally,but last month
they had refurbished and redecorated. Upscaled. A fainting couch instead
of a sofa, a footstool instead of an ottoman. They were entertaining
business associates more often now, and it was important to look the part.
The brown faded leather they'd had for the first ten years of their
marriage was out of place beneath the framed oils and the gilded sconces
and the beveled-edge leaded mirrors.

"My 'plane is going to be late. Something about a headwind and
construction in Dallas." Sean's cell 'phone broke up badly. "Won't-
crackle, screech-...don't expect...nine. Okay?"

She pressed the 'phone harder to her ear, as though she could improve the
connection by holding him tighter. "What? I missed that entire last bit.
You're still coming home, right?" 

He'd been gone, this trip, for almost three weeks. It was supposed to be a
week, just to explore the new sales area. Then it was ten days. There was
a bigger complex attached to the hospital than he had been led to believe,
which meant more doctors to visit. Then it became thirteen days. As long
as he was in the area, he might as well take some of the more lucrative
doctors for a round or two of golf. Then it was another week to help train
a new representative in a neighboring area. That's how it's played. That's
how sales are made and commissions earned and the Jaguar paid for. They
certainly weren't getting there on her teacher's salary. 

It had been this way for most of their marriage. They started out
together. She was twenty-three, fresh out of student teaching, first year
in the classroom, earning little more than minimum wage. He was three
years older, barely above entry-level sales for a company, and earning
enough in commissions to put gas in their Volkswagen after dropping her
off in front of the school flagpole every morning. They were together all
the time, evenings and weekends, mornings and holidays. It was how it was
supposed to be.

But he was very good. Smooth, glib, intelligent, funny. All those
qualities that drew her to him also drew other people in. He'd run his
fingers absently through his very-good-but-not-perfect hair, he'd smile
with his perfect-but-not-intimidating smile, and the nurses and
receptionists would "find" an extra ten minutes in Doctor's schedule so
that he could just "drop off some new samples that we're very excited
about." He used his bedroom voice with the receptionists. The one that
said, despite his actual words, I'd be very, very good to you. His voice
that told them, I know what to do. I know how to stroke you. I know how to
make you beg, and I can make you come twice before I even stick it in.

Oh, yes, they always found room in Doctor's schedule for Sean. And, since
doctors get most of their prescribing information from the drug reps
anyway, he was almost guaranteed a bigger commission check after each
visit. 

Before long, his sales area was expanded and he began making overnight
trips, then they were three- and four-day trips. And his smile got
smoother and his hair started prematurely to silver-making him, of course,
that much more attractive to the young and perky receptionists and
secretaries. Now, at thirty-five, he was one of the top salesman for the
company. His territory expanded again and, instead of three-day driving
sales trips, he began flying enough to earn them free first-class upgrades
when they spent their three-week summer vacation at the beach. It was
Myrtle Beach those first few years. Now it was more likely to be Aruba or
St. Maarten. Not a bad way to spend part of her summer off. 

So she tried not to complain about his business trips that seemed to be
getting longer and longer. She smiled, and she cleaned house, and she
cooked special "welcome home" meals, and she kept herself pretty and fit
and sexy for when he was home.

"Yes. I'm coming home. I can't wait to see you." The static seemed to have
cleared.

I wish he'd just use an airport pay 'phone instead of his company cell,
she thought. I don't care if it does mean he has to queue at the 'phone
instead of being able to call from the airport bar. 

"I've just found out that there's a problem with my connection in Dallas,
something about the construction. Don't worry though. I've booked a
different flight so that I could definitely be home tonight, but I'll be a
little bit later." She could hear the muffled sound of the waitress
delivering his drink. There was a brief shuffle, and she pictured the
casual way he handed over his credit card. She was sure that he'd flashed
one of his prize-winning smiles at the barmaid. You never know when you
might see them again; can't take the chance of offending someone.

"Can you pick me up at eleven instead of six? If it's a problem, I'll take
a cab home." It was an almost two-hour round trip from home to the
airport, but it wasn't a school night, and it had been too long since
she'd seen him.

"Of course I'll be there. Shall I meet you at the baggage claim?" She
missed the days before heightened security when she could meet him at the
gate. It was always such a romantic moment, standing there as the
passengers filed through the doorway, craning her neck to catch the first
glimpse of his hair, maybe a flash of his shoulder. She could always tell
him, even in a sea of blue business suits. Something about the way he
carried his shoulders. So straight. So sure. So confident. 

She'd stand just to the side of the crowd, back behind the squalling,
sticky-fingered children waiting to dig into Grandma's carryon bag. Sean
always knew where to find her. Even in the most crowded of waiting groups,
she'd always be right there. Two steps behind the gate counter, dressed in
one of his favorite dresses. Something that flowed. Something that
drifted. Something that made her look like his bride. Never one of the
wash-and-wear sweater sets that made her look like a third grade teacher.
When he came home, she was his Tabitha, sexy and loving, not Tabby, the
patient and mothering schoolmarm. 

He'd walk to her. He never pushed through the crowd, but somehow people
just seemed to move out of his way, and he'd drop his briefcase at her
feet, wrap his hands around her shoulders, and look down into her eyes.
And he always kissed her. Right there. A melting, gentle-but-insistent
kiss. A returning-from-the-front kiss, like something from a World War II
newsreel. A black-and-white movie kiss. A kiss that said, "This is my
wife. Not my lover, or my girlfriend, but the woman I'm going to grow old
with." She knew that other passengers watched them enviously. She missed
those homecomings.

It wasn't the same, waiting for him in front of the cold-steel conveyor
belt of baggage claim. There were too many people, the lights were too
bright, there was too much noise and activity. There was nothing romantic
about baggage claim.

"No. Don't go to baggage claim. There's no point in you battling the
parking lots. I'll meet you outside. Eleven o'clock should give me plenty
of time to get my bags and be outside the Arrivals doors. I'll see you
then, honey." Crack, snap. "I'm losing the connection again. I'll see you
tonight."

"Yes, I can't wait," she said into the empty 'phone.

~~~~~~~~~

It was a Friday night. There was a standing date for school staff members
on Friday night at one of the local restaurants. A small core of regulars
and a group of occasional others at a place set by whoever took the
initiative to send out an e-mail on Friday morning. Today it was the local
Mexican place. Margaritas, chips, salsa, and a chance to decompress after
the week. She knew she'd find at least three or four people whom she
genuinely liked there. It was a good way to spend the extra time instead
of sitting home and waiting. It was on the way to the airport anyway.
Might as well.

"Don't. Don't even get me started. I swear to God, if that cow tells me
one more time that it's not her 'precious baby's fault that his homework
isn't done, I'm going to reach down her throat and pull her heart out with
my own hands." 

Everyone tsked and uh-huh'd sympathetically. Different year, different
class, different parents, same stories. 

She nursed her margarita, licking salt from the rim and letting the hard
iciness of the frozen lime chill her top lip. Just one drink tonight.
Enough to be social, but not too much for the longish drive to the
airport.

She was only half-listening. Debbie had been battling this particular set
of parents since school started last September, so the story was a
familiar one. She let her eyes roam the room, indulging her hobby of
people watching. Couples, small groups, the restaurant was crowded
tonight, but it was a small town, it was Friday night, and the
availability of mid-priced dining with decent food and drink was limited.
It was always crowded. 

She smiled at their waiter, Mitchell, as he paused to refill her water
glass. He was cute, very much worth a second look, and he knew it. He was
younger than she was, by a few years. Eye candy, to be sure, and he worked
it to his favor. They'd flirted back and forth for months -- silly, casual,
regular-customer/waiter-earning-tips flirting, until the middle of last
quarter when he arrived at the school to pick one of her students and she
realized that he was the girl's way-too-young step-father. It put a damper
on the Friday night playfulness, but he still smiled and winked and they
could both laugh.

She turned to watch him as he stopped at a table across the room. He
leaned down to pick up the woman's plate -- her back was to Tabitha, but it
was obvious even from behind that she must have been stunningly gorgeous.
She shook her head and her hair, ginger-blonde waves to the middle of her
back, caught the candle light from a neighboring table. Mitchell's smile
went from being professional-waiter smile to being-smitten-young-man
smile. Her date said something and they all laughed -- Mitchell, the woman,
and her date. Tabitha could hear an oddly familiar guffaw that focused he
attention through the background restaurant noise of conversation and
muffled pseudo-Mexican music.

Mitchell moved away from the table, and Tabitha felt the kick in her gut.
It couldn't be Sean. He was on a 'plane, or in an airport waiting for his
'plane. He wasn't here. It was a trick of the light and her disappointment
at the delay causing her to imagine him. 

Except it wasn't. It was he. He ran his fingers through his not-quite-
perfect silvering hair and smiled that casual, practiced smile. It was his
blue traveling suit and understated blue tie with the red woven pattern.
Professional, but not stuffy. Subtle. It didn't so much scream "trust me"
as whisper it directly into the subconscious of whomever he was selling
to. His entire wardrobe suggested Ivy League without being threatening. He
dressed with care, always. Clothes say everything about the man, he'd
always told her. Can never be too careful about your image when you're
selling, Tabitha. Doctors are funny people, Tab. They need to think that
they're always the smartest person in the room, and they'll find ways to
ensure that you know it. You never know what might make him change his
mind about trusting you. 

She couldn't take her eyes off the tie. She'd bought it for him last
Christmas. That tie was supposed to be halfway to Dallas. That tie never
should have been in a Mexican restaurant, sitting across from Ms. Perfect
Hair. That tie was supposed to be across from her.

He wasn't watching the room. He wasn't looking anywhere except Ms. Perfect
Hair. And, no matter what, Tabitha knew that he couldn't see her. Not
here. Not like this. There would be a scene, no doubt about it. If he
spoke to her, if she heard the voice that was supposed to be wrapping her
in love and comfort and marital bliss, trying instead to explain and
backpedal, there would be a scene. But it couldn't happen here. Not in
front of her friends. Not with her sitting there to drink in her
superiority over The Wife. 

Tabitha turned her back to her table and finished the last of her drink.
Martha, a fourth-grade teacher, was telling her latest, 'ways children try
to cheat on spelling tests' story-something about temporary tattoos and
Capri pants. 

She leaned over to Debbie and handed her a bill. "Gotta run. This should
cover my drink. Take care of it for me, okay?"  She was talking too fast,
frantic to get out before Sean and Ms. Perfect spotted her.

"Okay. No problem. Tab, are you okay to drive?"

"Fine. I'm fine. I just lost track of time. Gotta run. See you Monday."

~~~~~~~~

Her mind raced as she drove, randomly.  It was early -- she had at least two
hours to burn before Sean's plane was supposed to "arrive," but it was at
least an hour to the airport and she had a full tank of gas.  She could
drive.  

At each stoplight, she pulled the rear-view mirror down to look at
herself, appraising. Some wrinkles around the corners, but not so many.
Make up, clothes, all impeccable. Not perfect, but still good enough to
turn heads on the beach.

So why? Why was Sean's tie at the restaurant with Ms. Perfect-Hair instead
of halfway to Dallas? 

They still talked. They didn't fight. They didn't have money problems or
children to disagree over. They still spent their Saturday mornings
drinking coffee over their own sections of the newspaper. They spent
Sunday mornings at church followed by brunch at the club. 

So why was he laughing with Ms. Ginger Blonde instead of with her? 

Was he sleeping with her? Stupid, of course he's sleeping with her. He
wouldn't have made up a delayed flight if he weren't sleeping with her.

She drove the same highway loop over and over, fighting the urge to pull
over to the shoulder.  Her mind raced as fast as her wheels turned on the
pavement.

So why was he sleeping with her? It would almost be understandable if she
were someone in one of his sales cities. But here? In their own town? Was
there something he wanted, sexually, that she wasn't giving him? Tabitha
had always been the more adventurous about sex. The one to suggest new
things, to try new positions, to tease him with silent gestures and erotic
notes hidden in his pockets. She'd decided early on that there was no way
her husband was going to be one of those men who complained that their
wives weren't 'active' enough. No 'once or twice a week and only on the
weekend' for them. 

That had always been her intention. To keep him from ever having a reason
to stray. She'd kept her body young and fit, fighting a decade-and-a-half
of gravity. She tried not to be demanding, but she initiated sex as often
as he did. 

The startling blat! of a horn brought her back to the road. She was almost
at the airport exit, another minute or two and she'd have overshot it,
which would have put her at least a half-hour late. The airport was the
last highway exit for a good four or five miles.

Airport construction kept her mind on driving as she maneuvered through
the endlessly changing concrete web of entrances and exits and parking
garages and international-not-domestic departure lanes. 

He was still easy to spot. Even among the crowd of weary travelers hailing
taxies or waiting for hotel shuttles or searching for tired relatives it
was unmistakably he-standing outside the Arrivals gate with his briefcase
in one hand and his sample case and garment bag on the ground next to him.
She pushed the seat back and slid across to the passenger seat as he came
around to the driver's door. 

"Welcome home, Sean." 

"I missed you, Tabitha. It's good to be home." He leaned over to kiss her.
She rested her hand against his chest and gave his tie, that tie, a stroke
as his lips met hers. No, it wasn't the same as meeting him at the gate,
and they both knew it.

They drove in silence, mostly. Married silence, each somewhere else. Was
he thinking about dinner and margaritas and long curls? Her stomach
clenched and she realized that she wasn't sad. She was something else.
Angry? No. Not yet, but that was coming. She couldn't talk to him, not
now. If she started while they were locked together in the car, she'd have
to listen to his smooth explanations and rational excuses and glib
denials. Now was not the time.

They pulled into the driveway. "Are you hungry? I ate out tonight, but I
could fix you a sandwich while you unpack."

"No. Thanks. I'm not hungry. I'm just going to bed, if that's okay."

She lingered in the living room, listening for the shower to start before
turning off the lights. 

~~~~~~~~

He snored softly in the dark beside her. She listened, tried to sleep, but
thoughts of perfect hair and understated ties kept her awake. 

What was it that she had that Tabitha was missing? What did she do for him
that Tabitha couldn't? The world had shifted, and all at once, she was
unsure.

Without turning on the light, Tabitha sat up and pulled her nightgown over
her head, baring her breasts in the darkness. She let her hands roam,
taking a silent inventory, starting at the top. Highlighted hair, smartly
cut and styled. Casual, soft, smooth. She thought of how gently he stroked
her hair after sex, holding her, cuddling until they both fell asleep.  

She turned her face to watch him in the darkness. His breathing was
untroubled, not the guilty tossing and turning she'd expect from an
adulterer. Maybe she was wrong, maybe there was an explanation, a
perfectly legitimate reason for his tie to have been having dinner with
her hair.

No. Because he'd have told her. There wouldn't have been a reason for him
to call and pretend to be late if there was an innocent reason for him to
be in town.

She stroked the skin of her throat, felt its softness under her
fingertips. Watching his in-and-out breathing, feeling the different
rhythms of her pulse and his breath. They were like that, lately, she
realized. Him slow and calm and reserved and quiet. She was the faster
one. Always moving, always going somewhere, doing something. Maybe that's
what it was. Maybe Ms. Ginger Hair matched him better, didn't demand his
time or his energy. Maybe she floated through, gently breathing in and out
with him. 

Tabitha got up, stood beside the bed, and let her nightgown slip off her
shoulder, to the floor, before slipping into the bathroom. She looked back
at the bed before turning on the bathroom light. Her movements hadn't
seemed to disturb Sean. He was like that -- she'd joked that he could sleep
through an earthquake, through an avalanche, through the end of the world
probably. 

Inside the bathroom, she lit candles in the wall sconces and on the shelf
over the sink. Unscented -- Sean said that perfumes gave him headaches -- but their light cast comforting shadows on the white stucco walls. Their house was full of white stucco. Bathroom, living room, kitchen, bedroom, they'd all been white stucco when they moved in. She'd wanted to change it when they redecorated, but Sean had been reluctant. "It's a pain in the ass to remove stucco, Tab, and it's easy to decorate around it. If we paint it
and then change our minds, we'll just have to redo the whole damn thing
anyway. Leave the walls, we'll put up pictures." In the end, she'd figured
that he was right. It wasn't worth the hassle, so they'd left the walls
and decorated around them with prints and sconces and shelves with
statuettes and figurines.

The master bathroom had been her room to decorate though. No one saw it
except for them -- guests used the hallway or the downstairs bathroom -- so
she'd made it into her retreat. An extra-deep tub, sliding glass doors,
shelves inset into the walls for votive candles and bottles of bubbles and
bath salts and glasses of wine, a small sitting ledge in the corner.

Candles lit, she turned off the overhead light and sighed in the
comfortable darkness. No bath tonight, though. She was wiredangry. 

She turned the faucet and let the shower run, filling the small bathroom
with steam. There was a soft whistle of air in the pipes and she adjusted
the temperature, bringing it from scalding to just-barely-tolerable hot.
Wavering dots of light flickered in the steam that covered the mirrored
shower door. That door had been a splurge of theirs. A nod to his
practicality and Tabitha's leanings towards more adventure in their sex
life. "Good Lord, Tabitha, you'd install a mirror over the bed if I'd
agree to it, wouldn't you?"

Probably not, but the shower mirror had become a quiet joke between them.
Sean used it to shave in the shower in the mornings, but he knew that
wasn't why she had wanted it there.  

She loved his body. They were beautiful together, and sex with Sean had
always been art, to her. Her hips snug against his, his arm wrapped around
her, pulling them together in the yin and yang waves of a couple. But once
the mirror was installed, Sean stopped joining her in the shower.

"Give me time to adjust to it, Tabitha. I'm used to seeing you during sex,
not me." So, she'd waited, and eventually stopped asking.

She swiped her hand over the surface, clearing the steam so she could see
her reflection, fuzzy with the steam and candlelight. She smoothed her
hands up over her hips, across her belly, feeling the slight rounding that
Sean always said was evidence that she was real and not a dream. Another
wipe of the mirror, and she could see her skin in the candlelight growing
pink from the heat of the water. Her hands traveled up, cupped her
breasts, fingers rolling her nipples into hard buttons. Squeezing,
twisting, harder than Sean did, but it wasn't pain that she felt.
Intensity, yes. But not pain.

She sat on the ledge, one hand still on her breast, the other between her
thighs, stroking. It had never been her favorite, solo sex in the shower,
the water made it too slick, she needed more friction than she could
create with wet fingers. There was a basket of rolled washcloths above the
sink. Perfect, wrapped around two fingers gave her just enough rough,
enough not-so-gentle, not-so-easy touch. She braced one foot against the
edge of the tub, her back against the tile wall, and rubbed as the steam
blocked the reflection in the mirror. Her fingers circled her clit, fast,
sure, ready. Faster than with Sean, but harder also. She knew what she
needed and she knew the quickest route there.

The hot shower stung her skin. The water made sharp needles against her
shoulders and her back. She bit her lip, moaned softly, heard the sound
echo in the shower walls. She imagined the drops washing away her anger,
pulling it from her body down the drain to join the rest of the debris of
human life.

And Sean was still asleep. Maybe he hadn't slept through the end of the
world, but he had slept through the end of something, at least. 

~~~~~~~~~

She felt his stroking fingers before she was fully awake. She'd not put
her gown back on before getting into bed last night, and his fingers were
tracing the lines of her spine until they paused, lingering over the cleft
of her buttocks. She let him stroke her skin as he did on Saturday
mornings. It was how they always woke up on Saturday mornings. Just once
more. To prove it's not my fault.

Lazily, she reached behind her, over her hip, and his fingers found hers.
Without speaking -- after all this time, these years, they didn't need to
speak -- he guided her fingers to his cock. It was morning hard. She wrapped
her fingers around the smooth shaft, her thumb stroking over the tip,
feeling the heat of his body against hers.

Shifting forward slightly from the waist, Tabitha lifted her hips, pulled
him gently between her thighs. His hand gripped her hips and pulled her
tightly against his own, his prick hard, pushing against her, then into
her. They moved together, both insistent. Sean always lasted longer in the
mornings, but this one was for him, she knew. I'm done. She rocked her
hips in short, fast backwards thrusts, pulling almost completely off him
with each arc forward until she felt his fingers tighten. One. Two. Three-
and-hold.

She was first in the shower. 

~~~~~~~

He sat at the table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. She fixed
their breakfast. It was the same thing every Saturday morning. Coffee,
toast, garlic-and-cheese scrambled eggs. No bacon or sausage anymore. They
had cut that out of their diets a few years ago, both of them. 

Tabitha imagined them in bed. Sean and Ginger. She imagined them making
love in a room rented for the night. Was she married? What excuse had she
given her husband to be out at dinner with Sean tonight? Would it be
easier if she were married? What were their plans, Sean and Ginger's?
Suddenly Tabitha felt it, the edge of the cliff, and she knew that she'd
go over if she didn't find out the truth.  

She put a plate of eggs in front of him.

"Sean."

He mumbled a response into his coffee. 

"Sean. Put your paper down. I need to ask you something."

He looked startled, but complied. 

"What is it, Tabitha?"

"How was your dinner last night?"

His perfect salesman cover wavered, just for a moment. She sat across from
him and watched his eyes watching hers. He knew.

"I was going to wait and tell you next week. I guess there's no point in
that, is there?"

"No. Not really."

"Aren't you going to ask?"

Tabitha thought for a minute. Did she really want to know who Ginger Hair
was?  

"No. It doesn't matter, does it?"

He looked at her, closed the paper neatly, and stood up.

"No. I guess it doesn't. Not really."

~~~~~~~~

It hadn't taken nearly as long as she'd feared. The split was easier than
it might have been with other couples. He wanted out. She wanted out.
There were no kids and no pets. Only their home. And furnishings. He
insisted that she take the house and furniture. He kept the Jag-must keep
up the image, after all. And the company's top salesman couldn't be seen
driving around in a mid-market car. It was faster that way, and-ever the
practical one-Sean knew she'd take the house in lieu of alimony

The weight of the key should have been unnoticeable, but now it seemed as
a rock, a boulder, in her pocket, rooting her to that spot in the open
doorway. The storm door pressed against her back, and she absently
polished the brass knob of the oak door with the cuff of her sleeve. She
let her gaze roam over the now-bare walls, and it came to rest on a vague
shadow left on the white stucco. She should have repainted it, she
supposed, but it didn't really matter. The new owners were going to tear
that wall out to connect the living room and the kitchen, but leaving it
there seemed almost a betrayal of memory. She wandered over and traced the
faded outline with her fingertip. She barely noticed the dirt tracks she
left on the once-pristine carpet -- she had always been so careful about
taking her shoes off inside when it was her house 

As she drew her finger along edge of the gray smudge, her thoughts flew
back. Her wedding night. They'd made love for the first time as a married
couple on that sofa, so many years ago. They had danced for hours, and her
satin shoes had pinched her toes, and his tuxedo collar had been starched
too heavily, but dancing together as man and wife had made them forget all
that.

They were giddy, drunk on champagne and laughter and energy from the crowd
of well-wishers and revelers. He had insisted upon carrying her over the
threshold, and she teased him about being old-fashioned, since they had
lived there together for almost a year before the wedding. But he had
insisted, and he lifted her easily though the door and into the living
room. But they had left in a hurry the night before and there had been
something -- a magazine, a newspaper perhaps -- on the floor that his foot
slipped on. He was sliding across the floor, with her in his arms, so they
both tumbled in a cloud of organza and silk and lace, onto the sofa,
banging it against the wall. 

He'd reached under her skirt as she sat across his lap on the brown sofa.
He'd groped at the silk crotch of her panties, pulling at them impatiently
until she, laughing, took his hand in hers and pulled him up over her.
Sprawled on the sofa, the leather hot against the bare skin of her thighs,
she cradled his face in her hands and said, "Mr. Martin, you've spent the
last year making me a fallen woman, living here in sin, in your house. Now
it's time for you to fuck your wife." And he did. 

She lifted her hips, letting him pull the silk down over her thighs. Then
he kneeled between her spread legs, teasing his fingertips through the
damp curls of hair on her mound. She sat up, undid his pants, and slid
them and his shorts to the floor before bending over to take his cock
between her lips. He was already hard, frantic must-fuck-now hard, and she
stroked him from base to tip with her tongue. Her fingers wrapped around
the base of his cock, her palm holding his balls, massaging them softly
the way she knew would make him moan. 

She held him like that, her fingers moving a slow rhythm around his cock,
her hand pressing his balls against the warmth of his body, and her lips
wrapped around the tip of his cock as he stood up. He was naked from the
waist down, her skirt was pushed up around her waist, and they were both
too rushed to remove any more clothing than was essential. 

Her tongue swirled around the tip of his cock, teasing, until his legs
began to shake. He gently-he was always so gentle-pushed her back until
she was lying on fully on the sofa and he was above her, one hand on the
back of the sofa, the other next to her head on the brown-leather arm. He
stayed there, not moving into her yet, just looking. 

She met his gaze with her own, "What? What's wrong?"

He took a second to answer. "Nothing's wrong, Mrs. Martin. I'm memorizing
you."

"Stop, you're silly."

"No, this is what I want to see, always, when I close my eyes. You beneath
me, your eyes, your lips, your cheeks. I'm memorizing you so I can have
you forever."

"Sean, you have me forever. Mr. and Mrs. Martin. 'Till death do us part."

She held his cock in her hand and guided him to her opening, and he pushed
forward, slowly, filling her. They rocked together, pushing against the
leather, no longer rushing. Long thrusts. Him pressing down, deep into
her. She arching up, meeting his retreat with her advance, never letting
him pull away or out from her completely. Always connected, always warm
and wet and held tightly together.

They felt it together. He plunged faster, harder, deeper into her, and she
clung desperately to him. Her thighs trembled as she wrapped her legs
around his waist, her feet pressing into his back, holding him to her. He
stiffened, thrust once more, and held himself there. She shifted, just
slightly, grinding her pelvis against his, giving her the last edge, the
final stroke she needed to join him.

They were beyond words. They lay together on the sofa, tangled in arms and
legs and not-quite-discarded clothing, his weight comfortably and
reassuringly heavy on her chest. She felt his heart pounding and hers
struggling to meet the beat of his pulse. They panted, gasping for breath,
until they calmed. He breathed out as she breathed in, their chests moving
together in a slower, more controlled, shared in-and-out, up-and-down.

"There," he'd told her, "it was my house, now this is our home."

They teased each other about the mark the dark leather of the sofa had
left on the white wall. But neither of them ever removed it. For years, it
had been a reminder of laughter and the silliness that she fell in love
with in the first place. And when he stopped being silly and they stopped
laughing so much, the mark was like a picture. Something that reinforced
fading memories.

Now, a decade and a lifetime later, the sofa was gone, replaced by the
cream colored fainting couch with matching footstool. They'd never fucked
on the fainting couch, nor had they fucked over the footstool. They were
too expensive, too easily stained and not easily cleaned. And they were
both of which were packed in the truck outside along with all their other
furnishings and memories. 

It had been a good house. Their first house. Their first memories
together. Soft light flowed through the cheap lace curtains they had left
covering the picture window and a slight breeze made them flutter and
float in the empty space that once held their lives.