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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Love is a powerful but subjective emotion. For some the act of loving blurs traditional lines. It is wrong if it's real?

Submitted: March 12, 2015

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Submitted: March 12, 2015




It has to be the worst sound in the world. It’s not even the electronic screams and increasing intensity as I unconsciously slap the face to silence it that I hate. The most misogynistic people alive create these devices knowing that each day millions of drones are awakened from dreams where life makes sense-or no sense at all. The temporary and often exaggerated part of dreams that appeal to me-it’s the disconnect from reality really. Nothing more.

Lying comatose, between awake and asleep, I have a hard time telling where my body ends and hers begins. Am I still dreaming? It’s this way every day and one of the only reasons I set my alarm clock 20 minutes early. After 10 years of marriage our body’s still assume a Salvador Dali like blending at night. Summer, winter, any season is the same. Our marriage bed is where our true and inner beings merge into one-flesh. It is still surreal to me and my favorite time of the entire day, close ahead of falling asleep in the same bliss.  We assume the position of perfect peace and unspoken love. Twisted arms and legs like an intertwined vine. You can’t be this close-it literally is almost impossible-unless you are pieces to the same puzzle.

I have seen ruins on the internet of ancient cities destroyed in seconds by ash floods following volcanos. As they are unearthed by archeologists very rarely is one body found alone. They are pulled from the grip of the ages by twos, locked in eternal embrace. I want to die that way.

Each morning I could die, in fact, and know that I have loved and been loved. Real love, deep love, braided love. She usually sighs and grunts some dream-like version of “I love you” as I separate our individual forms. The smell of last night’s passion and sweat –hers or mine I never know – fills my nose as I emerge from our love. I think it’s the fact that she never wakes or moves position after we unwind that makes me nearly cry. The bed is still warm and my shape is still pressed into her. I am still there. She loves me and I love her almost more than words.

The cold air and awareness of the new day sets in and the day begins. I like to pretend that I don’t know what the day will bring but I do, I always do. Such is the life of a working stiff. The same shower, the same clothes, the same routine every day. Even the demons seem the same. Sometimes I am glad because for the first few minutes I don’t have to think – just move. One last glance at my life, still lying in bed, and I clasp my watch and shut off the light as I close the door.

We married so young that I don’t know if our love was there at first sight, as they say, or if it grew this strong over time. It seems like it has always been easy to be in love, soul mates, but I don’t know if she feels the same way. I don’t know if I have ever clearly expressed to her how I feel. I know she knows and she knows that I know; that’s what’s important I suppose. The strength of the emotion has gotten us through some tough spots financially and physically. I rarely hear our names used alone.

Many couples are brought together by some common interest – cooking, hiking, cycling, writing, something. Not us. We share few interests in common. We just have each other and it is enough. Sure, we laugh and enjoy life, even out of bed we are constantly touching. We are like each other’s energy source. Her touch still makes me flush. It is hard to explain.

Early on I stressed the importance for her to get to know the “real me.” It was the subject of many arguments and sleepless nights. I know things, I feel things, I need things that she needs to understand. She must understand! She doesn’t. At first I thought it was lack of interest and ignorance. Now I know it’s fear. That’s ok, I long ago stopped needing her to know. The climax occurred during an argument five or six years back when I begged her to let me confess my condition. Her way of arguing is to say nothing. I press until she spoke. “I love you and you love me, what we have is real and will never be destroyed no matter what. Unless you have a truck full of dead bodies I don’t want to know anything other than our love. Whatever it is, it’s ok, I will always love you!”

Fine. I haven’t mentioned it since.

Ducking into my BMW M4 I retrieve my phone. I stopped taking it into the apartment long ago. Too much of a distraction. 58 new messages. A quick scan reveals a system failure at work the night before, Harley released a new model, my fantasy football team lost again, and some-damn-body really wants me to play Candy Crush. 30 messages left to scan.

Melody has been busy! I am glad I met her eight years ago in Cleveland. In some ways she has made my days so much easier. Of the 30 messages I see that noon-3pm is going to be busy again. I have a few decisions to make first.

My 30 minute drive is greeted by the pre-dawn haze over the city. I love this car. Pulling into space 888 on the eighth floor of the deck, this day may end up harder than I thought. I am already distracted. Why did she have to cross the road in front of me.

I think about these things too much -colliding paths. How can one person 15 miles away from another wake up, dress, and travel to work only to encounter each other at a random intersection at exactly the same time. I wish she had broken a heel or spilled her coffee. A 45 second delay would have allowed me at least 15 more minutes without distraction.  

Each day is the same. I know the demon but I suppress it as long as possible. It awakens either at these crosswalks, in the building lobby, or somewhere in between. One example of flawless beauty and symmetry and it is hopeless. I can’t fight it. I start scanning Melody’s messages again as I walk to my office. So many choices. The rush is building.

Safely in my high-back chair and logged in, I shoot my wife a text to brighten her morning. “I love you have a great day!” A scan of my calendar. Meetings from 8:30 – 11:30 solid. Fuck this day already. No time for important decisions.

One quick message and it’s off to get coffee, figure out who gets fired because of the outage last night, then meetings.

“Melody. Sweets. You know me, figure it out, I trust your judgment. See you at noon.”

Melody has no definable skills other than a pretty face and a huge contact list. She knows people, that’s why I need her. I met her in the lobby of a hotel in Cleveland in a most bizarre way. I suffered then but it was much more difficult to control. I took too many risks. I had watched Melody from a safe vantage point for about two hours the first night. I knew I should have approached her, after all I asked her to be there. But, I couldn’t. She wasn’t right.

She paced the floor and checking her watch every 30 seconds it seemed. She had a tick where she would check her watch then bring her fingers to her lips as if she was drawing from a cigarette. I watched her brown curly hair bounce and the grimace on her face tighten with each pivot. I focused on her face and the tapping of her too-high heels. I never looked below her neck line. I did once when I first saw her. Never again, it wasn’t right.

I stayed and watched as long as she stayed. Exasperated, she finally left.

The next night I was passing through the lobby and from somewhere in my subconscious I heard that damn tapping. Exactly where she was the night before, she paced. For two more hours I watched.

It was the third night that I couldn’t take it anymore. I approached her. Without introduction she knew who I was and punched me in the shoulder like we were high school team mates though we had never met. I told you, she wasn’t right.

I took Melody to dinner and learned some about her past. The conversation was labored. We are on different intellectual levels. But, I deduced that she was penniless, near homeless and had replied to my call because she had no other option. It was her first time and being stood up pissed her off so she came back to the hotel for three nights off of principle. This wasn’t the profession for her.

Melody has worked for me since that night. I realized after listening to a phone buzz in her purse for two hours during dinner that she was popular in many circles and had extensive connections in the modeling and clubbing industries. Perfect!

About half way into our dinner she asked me why I didn’t follow through with my mission the night I called her. For the first time in a while, I was embarrassed. I had no escape so I told her my obsession.

Expecting some type of negative response perhaps due to her feeing of personal rejection, she simply laughed, looked up at me sheepishly, and said, “I can help with that!” And help she did.

Melody moved to my home city about three years ago. Before then she helped me from cities I traveled to on business. She now lives in my company condo usually reserved for out of town staff and visiting clients. I can’t believe that no one has questioned the fact it has been booked solid, weekends included, for three straight years. She has a very simple job: know what I want, find it, keep the place immaculacy clean, and be gone from noon-3pm Monday – Friday. What she does the rest of the time is her business. For three years now, five days per week, she hasn’t let me down, not once. Why can’t my other employees be like her?

After my 11:30am meeting I checked my messages and, to my delight, I saw a response from Melody saying, “It’s all set-up, see you at noon.” That’s my girl!

At 11:55am I was walking. In the lobby of the condo building by 11:59 I heard that damn tapping. Melody. We exchange a quick glance. She winks and twirls her hair. It still irritates me how she looks like an 80’s hair band groupie, red lipstick, open-mouth chewing gum, and all. I don’t care what she looks like. I press floor 48 and she spins through the revolving door. No words needed. While I have done this hundreds of times, rarely missing a weekday for the past three years, I am still nervous as hell. My palms are sweaty and I loosen my tie.

The elevator door opens into the condo. Standing at the kitchen bar is a mirage, an angel, 5’10” with heels, a soft black dress down to mid-thigh, straight hair parted on the side-simple-flawless porcelain skin, and curves that would make my BMW M4 jealous. How does Melody find these creatures?

I am transfixed. She clearly sees my perspiration and flush face. This usually is enough to trigger a response. She motions toward me, gliding, all I see is the gentle articulation of her high hips through the black dress. I deduce instantly that she is not wearing panties and is shaved into a line about the size and width of my pinky finger. I can’t see, I just know these things, it’s a gift.

She takes me by the hand, no words, and pulls me into the last bedroom down the hall. For the next three hours I explore every inch of her perfectly symmetrical body. I leave no area uncharted. I study these beings like the art they are. I do not understand the way they are put together with such precision and perfection. Each one is different, the smells, the curves. Because no two are alike I can’t study the same one twice. From the arch of the shoulders down the length of the arm I progress. I spend exponentially more time on the hips. That’s the magic, the symmetry, like the lady at the crosswalk this morning (I wonder if Melody has her number).

I kiss the parts I like in gentle approval. Often it’s received with a sigh or moan. The most appreciation is for the goose bumps. As I study the muscle structure, bones, and lines of the inner thigh I rarely have time for intercourse. It wouldn’t last long anyway. If I sense that she wants it by the aroma and moisture I will use a finger or my tip to satisfy her. I have never climaxed. Often the pain I feel afterward is the punishment for my obsession.

I usually feel myself rushed with only three hours. Fine art has to be taken in slow. I rarely make it past the hips and upper thigh. At 3pm sharp we are both dressed and I am out the door for the office. The peace I feel after experiencing a new work of art is exhilarating. It never gets old. Some days as I pass Melody in the lobby I boyishly throw her a high-five. “Job well done Melody!”

I am home each day by 6:30pm with my love. Dinner, TV, a walk, a movie, it doesn’t matter so long as we are together. No questions, only positive non-judgmental conversation. By 11:00pm we are in bed. Only five days per month we don’t have sex. Every other day, as if we schedule it, we consummate our marriage again. It is wild and vigorous.  We tie ourselves into the human knot that I untangle each morning when so rudely awakened by the electronic screams.

That is love.  

© Copyright 2019 Lukus. All rights reserved.

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