Authors: Vivienne Harris-Scott
((~~!~~))
The next morning, Ethan didn
’
t wake me, but before leaving the bed, he slowly
ran a finger along my spine, and deposited two kisses on my shoulder blade.
I
heard myself moan before I could do anything about it.
See,
this is something E. had done every single morning, from the first night we
shared a bed in The Hague to the last night I had spent in this very bed on the
eve of our 2
nd
wedding anniversary, 18 months ago. Whether we argued
or were emotionally distant, or refused to talk to each other for a few days,
when we shared our bed, he would still do it. Every morning.
I
still recalled what he had said to me when I asked him with curiosity why he
was doing it. He had smiled and said in all seriousness
“
Because I want you to know, you are the
first thing I think of before starting my day.
”
And
you wonder how I fell in love with him?
At
the beginning of us, this simple touch would wake me and make me pull him back
into bed, and I wouldn
’
t
let him go until we had made love. When his campaign had started and distance
grew between us, the fact that he kept doing it, reassured me that my husband
was still caring for me, no matter how tense our life had become. When we no
longer shared a bedroom, I missed the human contact, the little comfort it
provided to my mind and my heart. Until the night of our 3
rd
anniversary. From then on, any contact from Ethan had been unwelcome, feared
even.
Not
this morning, though. Not anymore.
I
bit my tongue and my eyes remained closed, but I felt the oddly familiar tingle
on my spine .I wasn
’
t
ready for any sort of physical intimacy, and I was grateful, Ethan didn
’
t wait, and headed straight for the
bathroom.
When
he came home that evening, we didn
’
t
talk about how I ended up in our bed. He didn
’
t question it, I didn
’
t explain. We talked about our day, ate,
laughed, read, and then went to bed.
The
only difference in our routine was instead of doing my nightly ritual on my
bed, we were doing it on ours. From him counting the pills I took to the belly
oil massage and the light goodnight kiss on the forehead, he was still acting
the same. There were no sexual advances or overtures, and I was grateful for
it.
He
even went as far as asking me if I wanted him to wear a shirt instead of his
usual bare chest, as he
’
s
only slept with bottom
pjs
ever since we had met, or
naked if we had happened to make love well into the night. I told him his chest
was fine, because I needed the body heat, which was half a joke, but also half
true, as I had realized the previous night, how much I had missed human
contact.
After
three weeks of sleeping together into the same bed, our bodies had fallen back
into hold habits. We would found ourselves intertwined upon waking up; my legs
would be between his or vice versa, his head would be resting against my
covered breasts, my hand would be cupping his buttocks, or I would feel his morning
wood pressed against my lower back. We would sometimes apologize, or mostly
laugh it off. Ethan told me he didn
’
t care in which position we woke up, as
long as we shared a bed, and I let him hold me, he was happy. I agreed with him
because I felt the same. I was comfortable sleeping with my husband.
I
was starting to love him again.
((~~!~~))
Week 21 rolled in, and Ethan and I had
another evening that changed the course of our marriage.
I
’
ll never know if it was the hormones, or
the natural course of events, but let me just say: I hadn
’
t planned it.
I
had been restless all day. Meditation and yoga hadn
’
t help, writing had given me a headache, I
had tried to cook in order to relax, but my mood was sour and I had sent Marina
away after I fried before her eyes the 3rd crème brûlée I had been trying to
cook up for Ethan. It was 8.00 p.m. and my husband wasn
’
t home. He had rung moments earlier to
inform me his meeting was running late and it would be another one or two hours
before he
’
d
get home, I shouldn
’
t
wait up for him if I was getting tired. I decided to take a bath to get rid of
all the tension that seemed to have accumulated since the morning of what had
turned out to be a rotten day.
After
spending almost an hour in a warm cocoon of bubbles and jets that our whirlpool
tub offered, I was feeling much better. As I applied my evening oils over the
different parts of my body, I surprised myself wishing Ethan were home to do
it. As of late, I was craving the touch of his fingers against my skin, whether
he was just caressing my belly or my back, or massaging my feet or my
shoulders.
Just
the previous week, my nose had rediscovered the power of his cologne, and I had
found myself literally glued to his neck whenever we were lying down either on the
sofa or in bed, the scent being so addictive and comforting to me.
This
had led me to give him our first deep French kiss in over a year, when a few
days ago, he had come home, a grim expression on his face and he had told me he
needed a hug from me after a particularly horrid day. We had been on the
sectional, and he had nuzzled his head in the crook of my neck, his arm wrapped
around my belly while I was caressing his hair as he was telling the gruesome
details of his day and how afraid he was the state budget talks would collapse
if some members of the opposition didn
’
t cave soon. Almost unconsciously, after
he had inhaled my perfume and kissed me on the tender spot, I had lifted his
chin and pulled him up into a kiss. Only when I felt myself moan into his mouth
and felt him respond in kind, I realized what I was doing, and stopped. I had
apologized profusely, telling him I didn
’
t know what had come over me. He had given
me a lazy smile and said he was feeling much better, and I could kiss him
anytime I
’
d
like, but he understood my need to stop. He wouldn
’
t push, and told me he was just happy to
be near me, to kiss me when I let him.
Ethan,
E., not the Premier, not the brutal stranger who had assaulted me, my husband,
the love of my life, was back. I don
’
t know how by some miracle it had
occurred, but it had; and while I was grateful for it, I simply didn
’
t know how to react. I hadn
’
t forgotten what had happened the night
our baby was conceived.
Yet,
tonight, standing in front of my mirror, covering myself in silky oils, I
wondered what it would feel like to have him touch and kiss all inches of my
body. I closed my eyes as I massaged myself and pictured his hands instead of
mine. Soon I was feeling hot, and my breathing was ragged. I opened my eyes, and
saw that I was flushed. I admonished myself wondering why on earth I would
fantasize about him caressing me. Was I going crazy?
As
I heard his voice calling me out, I realized he was home, and hastily put on
the first baby doll dress and socks that were on my dresser. When I arrived
downstairs, E was in the lounge having a glass of liquor. He smiled when he saw
me, pulled me into his arms to give me a light kiss on the nose, and then
surprised me by lifting me into his arms, bridal style, to take me to the sectional
where he put me down.
I
was giggling and asked what was up with him. He just said he was happy to be
home. He opened the slit of my dress, kissed my belly and asked against it,
“
How is my baby doing today?
”
He put his ear against it for a few seconds
and then said
“
Really?
You think so?
”
I looked at him mesmerized. He kissed the belly again, and said,
“
Ok. Will do. But first, it
’
s story time,
”
and then he gave it a soft caress. I
stared at him. He smiled and said sheepishly,
“
Our son seems to think you
’
ve been so good today, you deserve a
treat, so how about I give you a back massage before we go to sleep?
”
I looked at him, smiling and playing the
game, said with arched brows,
”
Really,
he said that? I guess he
’
s
going to be a mama
’
s
boy
…
As to the massage, well husband of mine, how could I possibly say no? A
pregnant woman never says no to a massage.
”
We both smiled. E. lightly kissed my lips
and told me to think about which book I wanted tonight, while he went changing.
I
touched my lips as I watched him leave the room.
What was wrong with me
tonight?
To
be honest, I couldn
’
t
think of any book, all I could focus on was the promised massage. I turned the
Bose stereo system on, hoping Miles Davis would be enough of a distraction.
((~~!~~))
When he returns, Ethan picks up a Paolo
Cuelho
, settles me between his hunches as we are on the
sectional, and when he
’
s
sure I am comfortable, he starts reading. The position is not new, he
’
s read to me like this dozens of times, I
don
’
t
know what
’
s
happening with me tonight, but I can
’
t help myself and I move closer, placing
my arm around his neck and my nose against it to smell his cologne, to smell
him. I don
’
t
realize before it is too late that my bottom has shifted against his crotch,
and to my utter surprise, he is aroused. I can feel it.
I
don
’
t
dare to move, but my traitorous body with a mind of its own has already reacted
to his nearness, his arousal; and I feel my nipples go stiff, while he is still
caressing my belly and reading. I can
’
t help but get breathless. I can hear
myself panting like a dog in heat.
I
feel ashamed. I look up and he is looking at me. I can
’
t bear it, so I look down at my tummy and
place my hand on his, which is trembling, against my skin.
He
lifts my chin and says in a whisper,
“
Baby, please don
’
t feel ashamed
…”
He
knows.
I
am mortified.
I
’
m tempted to get up and run to my bedroom
to hide the fact that he caught me fantasizing about his touch.
Then
he says in a soft, but pleading tone,
“
Let me do this for you
…
Please,
”
and I can
’
t move.