tagIllustratedA Woman's Story of Love Ch. 008

A Woman's Story of Love Ch. 008


Part 8

"Broken Glass"

After the dream I described, Mitchell welcomed my hips on him, down and back and forth. Whatever else I say about men, they have that hard thing that I don't, and it inspires feeling in me.

Mitchell repeated his joking comparison of our love life to his exercise regimen.

"Let's go for a five minute run, all out."

There wasn't more time. He had to get up for work.

"She wants it," he said, referring to my pussy as a person. "She told me so."

As we started he said, "After eight hours (sleeping, he meant), she needs to move."

While we were out the day before, Mitchell explained that he had to meet a student he was advising. She's an intern, and we stopped at her work place. He suggested she go for a run on her break, they could talk during it. He told me the plan. I would wait inside for them to finish and return together.

"It won't be long." The same thing he was saying now.

"Jump up and down! Yes, that's good. So good." His hands on my hips, my lower back, hoisting.

It was for me too.

"Can you enjoy?"

"I enjoy!"

He's tried to learn some of my language but mostly we speak his, which he keeps simple so I'll understand.

"Can you enjoy?"

"I enjoy!"

"Sugoi!" which in English means "great."

I'd found my peace with aspects of Mitchell's personality that surprised me at first. He has a big sense of humor but something else that's big too. His earlier "lectures" about the importance of sex made sense to me now. I agreed. It smooths things out.

I liked the way he clapped his hands on my bottom above him, aligned his fingers on both sides of the crack.

"Wet bed," he said when we got up, half-apologizing, with humor. He was leaving me with that.

His job preoccupied him, challenges he would face in the day. Things didn't always go as planned. There's stress.

Before going, he talked about women students he liked.

Yes, I write a lot about Mitchell, as you said. Do I have my own life? Yes.

You asked if I've been with another man since I married. I think you'll agree that can mean many things. Judge my experience for yourself.

We met French people. Friendly. It surprised me they kissed in greeting or even when we ran out of things to say, to show good feelings sustained even in the momentary absence of verbal communication, preventing awkwardness. Conversation was difficult, halting because we don't know French and their English was limited- but it was fun. They were nice, energetic. Marcel, the nicest, anyway the one most avid, who stayed close, was slim, tan, moved like a dancer. I was always surprised by and not unhappy about his narrow face in front of me- kiss kiss.

He wore a light olive green sleeveless teeshirt with lighter edges at the collar and arm cutaways. I was wearing an amber colored top and thought, when we were outside, that our colors made a good match in that low late day sun.

Mitchell said he felt he could learn French easily- he knew some already- claimed he was learning even then, through talking.

"La," he said he'd figured out, meant "there."

"Party," Marcel or maybe his friend Theodore said. They invited us to one. Not sometime later, another day but then, that afternoon.

We walked together. It was a "fait accompli" that we would join them.

"What kind of party?" Mitchell asked.

Marcel and his friends exchanged looks and laughed. "How can I say..?"

"Dancing?" Mitchell asked.

The friends laughed again.

"I hope at least there'll be coffee," Mitchell said. He'd had a hard work day.

The friends looked surprised, laughed a little more, said what seemed to mean they thought that could be arranged.

Mitchell wanted to say he didn't like the idea of a party, but saw he shouldn't then. The men were so enthusiastic. He didn't want to spoil their fun.

Mitchell said he liked France- we've been there together- the music in stores, for instance, said American public sounds were harsher, blaring, commercials everywhere.

I think Marcel didn't really understand what Mitchell meant, but he smiled all the same as he listened, encouraged, didn't mind the incomprehension. A happy person. Mitchell apologized for our president, whom he called an idiot and dangerous. The French man shrugged and smiled again, soulfully, as if to console Mitchell for his travails.

As we walked toward Theodore's place, which he shared with friends (where the party was) Mitchell saw on the sidewalk pieces of green glass, bent to pick them up, a broken bottle- he didn't want others who passed after us to step on the shards, he explained. There were a lot, small ones. We helped him collect a few of the last. Mitchell carried them gathered in his hands toward a trash container narrowed at its opening to prevent anyone from putting in a bomb- security measures in place. He couldn't keep all the glass together and some spilled to the ground as he neared the receptacle. Police saw, stopped to help, at first responded to Mitchell a little suspiciously, looked at him askance. They were on the alert for terrorism.

It was a strange few hours. We passed the harbor, boats directly across the inlet from us. I pointed out that one only was rocking, the others still. I found that funny, laughed at how the pleasure boat moved.

"Maybe the others are moored more tightly," Mitchell said.

The sensible explanation didn't satisfy me.

"Maybe they're having sex." People on board, I meant. Marcel got my humor, the mood I was in, and his face reddened. I think mine did too.

"They must be moored more tightly." He put on a serious expression for Mitchell and didn't walk at my side after that, let Mitchell, followed behind us, talking with his friend Theo, our host. What they said I have no idea, but I heard their laughter and liked it. It floated off in the still atmosphere, and I felt light, floating with it.

A strange few hours. Twilight. Dusk light brushed that wildly bobbing boat and others, ignited the colors at the wharf, highlights moving on the water like holiday decorations, a streak of deep red on the dark wall rising from it, a sign in blue and white thick enamel (I know, I'm a painter; and the low-angle sun showed off the texture). That white and blue were at full midday strength, even as the surroundings, background, low buildings of that quiet neighborhood faded toward night. The sun hit us as we walked and made the top I wore shout "Yellow!"

I was almost with someone else already. This close.

Mitchell didn't drink coffee at the party but cold beer from a big silver can. Marcel said he wanted to see my body for aesthetic reasons, as artist to artist. He was a musician. He'd talked before about what kind of guitar he liked and how he played. Soft strings. Strong chords. That was when French music had come up, Mitchell commented.

Mitchell told me that he liked Marcel all right but that he seemed taken with himself.

"Is he an artist or playing as one?"

Mitchell saw my question, how I peered into his eyes.

"To get what he wants."

He answered before I'd asked.

"'Why?' you wanna know?" Mitchell leaned close and down and put his arm around me, saying in effect, "You're so naive."

"Do you know how much I like you?" he asked. His front bumped me. Dark brown corduroy pants.

There was dance. The pairing seemed right. Marcel's green shirt distracted me, caught my eye and held it up close. Last of the afternoon blazed beyond the window but didn't reach through. Something about the artificial light- already switched on- seemed to change the color of my top from amber to copper, and his green looked oxidized. In dance the copper went molten. It rode up my hip and past my belly button. I think zigzag patterns were all I or anyone else saw.

He said, "You're thin." That impression owed to the jeans I was packed into. New. Too tight. Every move I made they made with me.

Both their names started with the letter M. I leave it to you to decide who I accompanied out of the room where the party continued.

I agreed to M's request. He showed understanding we wouldn't make love. We went to the bedroom and I undressed for him. He asked me to lie down so he could see better. I did on my stomach, modestly. He not only looked but approached to touch. I let him. I liked him. We both understood we'd go no further.

In bed, he moved his palm over the length of my back, seeming to take its measure, assessing texture and color, skin tan like Marcel's, at least compared to Mitchell's. That French man liked nature, spent time in the sun. He told me. M stroked up my back to my bottom. He touched around my asshole, coming near but not quite making contact, running his fingertips lightly along the tight crack. I reared up. My hips rose.

"This," I whispered, telling him I liked it. And he continued.

"I want to photograph your ass," he said. He reached to me and felt I was wet, that his caresses in the other place had done that. We didn't make love then though my sex, as he called it, and my voice were gasping for him. His fingers played soft strings, strong chords.

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by Anonymous

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by Anonymous08/07/18

One of the best writers on this site

Thanks for your story. I choose to believe it's a memoir and it is beautifully rendered. Like an impressionist painting.

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