A Good Woman

But it wasn't what she was wearing. It was when she had worn it. The night we discovered each other. The night we had become lovers all those years ago.

"I... I kept it. I used to take the clothes out and look at them sometimes. I liked to remember. I didn't take them to San Fran. I wanted to forget. But, when you messaged me, I found them. I felt deeply foolish. But I put them in my case."

She was crying again. So was I. I stood and moved swiftly to her. Flung my arms round her. Kissed her. Kissed her again and again and again. Led her up to the bedroom. Lovingly removed her clothes. Let her do the same to me. Kissing again, we fell onto the bed together.

Amy was on top of me, kissing my neck. My collar bone. And then my breasts. I felt the barrier inside me dissolve. I felt the years roll back. I felt the intensity of her touch. The passion of her lips. And now, as I finally recognized, the tenderness of her love. I rolled her over, now on top and kissed her deeply.

I worshiped at the altar of her divine breasts and then slid down further. Kissing again, probing again. But now different lips. Different tastes. I lost my self drunk on her evocative aroma, on her familiar taste. We rolled again and Amy twisted; head to toe. Exchanging soft, sensuous kisses; labia orum caressing labia minora. Two bodies entwined, linked in pleasure, linked in love. Trembling as shared intensity built.

Then shifting. Face to face. Swapping tongues. Fingers exploring. Finding. Teasing. Feelings rising. Throbbing heat pulsing. Finger tips slipping inwards their entry eased by mutual excitement. Caressing. Stroking. Kissing. And rubbing. Rubbing until friction and pressure led to overspilling. To an impossible peak of collaborative pleasure.

Bodies held taught, resisting the irresistible and then accepting. Welcoming the pulsing, consuming waves. Waves of stimulation. Waves of joy. Waves of exaltation. Waves of oneness. Waves of love.

Collapsing. Holding. Chests heaving. Hearts pounding. Sweat and juices commingled. And closeness. Ultimate closeness. And, above all, again, love.

My name is Emily. I'm an unreliable narrator, at least in part.

This started as a relatively normal, quasi-biographical story, albeit at the emotional end of my range. It had embellishments, compression of time, a few blatant fabrications, and other areas in which it and reality parted company. Nevertheless, it was still very much based on actual events. Most of it still is. But then something happened.

Call it the power of writing. Call it the utter stupidity of the author. Call it the perspective afforded by the years that have passed. Whatever the reason, at some point during writing this story, it hit me that Amy and I had been in love all those years ago. It hit me like a sledgehammer. As in the narrative, romantic love was something that I had tried to banish from my life. I suddenly realized that I had not been very successful.

Of course I spoke to her. She confirmed my suspicion. She was amazed I hadn't realized. So, in the real version of this story, there was no declaration of love between us. No point where we said the things we had left unsaid at college. Those things didn't happen until this month.

Not long after the events in this story, I started dating a male colleague. He later moved in with me. And, on last New Year's Eve, he proposed.

Amy and I had already passed a fork in the road. One neither of us had even noticed was there. When I get married next Spring, my Chief Bridesmaid may have more mixed feelings than many in her position. I know I will, no matter how happy I am about how life has worked out for me.

There will always be a part of me that wonders, what if? I'm sure Amy has that part too. It's only human to wonder.

Acknowledgement

Thanks again to my friend, Djmac1031 for his thoughtful and encouraging input to this story.

Endnotes:

I sometimes write extensive endnotes, particularly for semi-autobiographical stories like this. The subject here is a little too personal to expand on further and, beyond the contents of the epilogue, I won't be doing this. However, I did want to address one area.

The therapy sessions featured are condensations of several such sessions. Without literary license, progress is not always so quick. I am not an expert in psychology and have probably not painted a very faithful picture of the practice in my dialog. I was a little frazzled at the time and this is not meant to be a psychotherapy textbook.

The approach I try to do some justice to is called Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and it is an alternative to more traditional Psychoanalysis. I'm not trying to do anything here but to sketch my own experience. In that, I found CBT helpful. If you find the concept interesting, please do your own research. It may or may not be right for you.

The name and physical attributes of my therapist -- who I still see -- have been changed for obvious privacy reasons.

The National Sexual Assault Hotline (800.656.HOPE) is available 24 hours a day and 7 days a week.