Mixed Signals

The necessary details had been all hammered out. Iain would be there bright and early the next morning, instead of Sunday, to help me fix some things around the house before it went on the market. The tone of our correspondence in recent weeks had been professional and agreeable. There was no reason whatever for him to end the conversation with, "I miss you."

I typed, erased, retyped and re-erased my response several times.

My sister's legal advice was in my head: "Any intimate contact is seen by the court as a reconciliation and will get your case thrown out." My own misgivings were in my heart. I didn't want to confuse Iain, or send mixed signals. I had filed the papers. We had spent most of the previous year fighting, since the first time I said I wanted to separate. The pandemic brought us time. He couldn't leave, and things between us had gotten better for a while. But time will out, and he was a liar. He always would be. He had taken it extremely hard when I told him, four months prior, that I still wanted a divorce. And I really did. But that night I also really wanted sex.

That was one part of our marriage that was always good, even if I had often wished it had been more frequent. He could touch me in just right places. We fit together perfectly. Guaranteed fireworks, every time. It had been six months. If I had known that last time would be really the last time...

A shiver ran through me at the memory, and my pussy, already pulsing lightly, clenched.

If I told him what I was thinking about, what would he do? It was an hour's drive from his new bachelor pad back to the house I had once hoped we would fill with happy memories and a boisterous batch of kids. Even if he hopped in the truck the moment he read my request and sped south, cooler heads would likely prevail before he got here.

So, I erased my spicy message for the final time, and resolved to go to sleep, broken heart and damp panties be damned.

My dreams were troubled. He was in most of them, kissing me. Hands between my legs and around my throat, teeth grazing my privates and collarbone. Being himself but looking like someone or something else. Evaporating into smoke as he climaxed inside me. Tender and vicious, strange and familiar, here and gone; I woke up crying and reached for his side of the bed. I sobbed angrily for ten or so minutes into his pillow, cursing him and marriage and me and the whole stupid grieving process.

Presently I began to come back to myself. Chex was staring at me, mildly concerned but mostly annoyed, from my vanity chair. He blinked his turquoise eyes slowly- are you quite through?- yawned and stretched the ponderously chubby orange body. He looked as though he was strongly considering scratching the navy velvet chair, but remembering he was being observed, hopped down to chirp at me pointedly. It was very inconsiderate of me to carry on this little depressive episode when I should have been serving His Majesty's breakfast.

Right. Saturday morning duties. Blow the nose, splash cold water on the face, pad to the kitchen and feed the starving 20 pound cat. Make the coffee to wash the toast down. Put on a record and scroll blindly through social media while the coffee machine brews its magic.

It had entirely escaped my mind that Iain was coming over that morning. I was absent-mindedly sipping coffee and staring out the kitchen window, letting the warmth fill my chest and the stimulant lift my mood, when he spoke.

"Márie?" He looked puzzled and a bit amused.

"Oh, hi. Would you like a cup? I forgot you were coming today instead of tomorrow."

"Clearly," he smirked. At that point, I remembered I wasn't dressed, having crawled out of bed in my white cotton camisole and panties, and fervently wished I could just die right then. "Not that I don't appreciate the view." Something in my lower pelvis throbbed.

"Ha! Ha, yeah, um. I'll be right...excuse me. I'm gonna- help yourself to whatever you need." And I fled to my bedroom, face burning like the Pope had seen me naked, when it was just my husband and I was in my underwear, nothing new after 16 years together.

I hurriedly brushed my teeth, took a quick French bath in the sink, and had just thrown the camisole into the laundry hamper when the bedroom door opened.

"Jesus Christ, Iain," I shrilled, "don't you knock?"

"You said help myself to whatever I need." He wasn't smirking at me anymore. His eyes were dark and a little wild looking, and his voice was very soft. For a heartbeat he just stood looking at me with that odd, serious expression. He closed the door and crossed the room in two strides. Then his hands were in my hair and his mouth was on mine. I don't remember many details of how it happened after that; next I knew he was naked from the waist down and I was joyfully moaning and riding him on our bed.

He nudged me off gently and took off the rest of his clothes, then climbed on top of me. Call it vanilla, but this was always the best way with him- face to face, heart to heart. I always felt closest this way. A few minutes more and I was crying out in satisfaction. He followed soon after.

When I woke up he was still on top of me. My legs were still wrapped around his hips. He kissed me, half-asleep, and moved against me, and I felt his hardness slip inside again. Slower this time, and moving gently. I felt like I could come or cry at any second.

His phone was ringing from his pants pocket on the floor the next time I regained consciousness. He sat up to answer and I sleepily listened to his half of the conversation. I knew who it was by the tone of his voice.

He hung up and lay down beside me again. Pulled me close and made his shoulder a pillow for me. He kissed my forehead and played idly with a strand of my hair. The ceiling fan whirred and sunlight edged between the blinds, falling in stripes on our bodies, on our bed, in our house.

"That was her, wasn't it?" He was silent for a minute.

"Yeah. She's coming by in about an hour."

Hot anger and grief swelled and twisted in my stomach, threatened to burst from my eyes and mouth. But I swallowed hard and just said, "Oh."

Silence settled on us again.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," Iain said. His voice was artificially casual.

"Yes?" I finally asked, when I could talk again. "What is it?"

"Serena and I- we're engaged."

I can't remember now if I thought, in that raw and painful moment, that it was the worst day of my life, but that sounds like some dumb shit I would have thought. If I could only see six weeks into the future, to me choking back nausea in the bathroom of my new apartment and staring in horror at a positive pregnancy test, I would have known that things can always get worse.