The Final Arrangement

Eyes closed.

A staccato drumbeat of heavy rain over the taut fabric of a sheltering umbrella. Waves of white noise, tyres on wet tarmac, sweep left and right. A dull, musty yet sharp-edged smell of wet city. Chill raindrops sprinkle over skin exposed below the knee. The sore ache of feet and toes bound tightly in leather, lifted on unfamiliar heels. Cool, silky smoothness of my long coat's lining wrapping my bare skin beneath. Flutter of a racing heartbeat.

And something else.

Something conspicuously unfamiliar and new. Something light, cool, barely there, encircling my ankle, placed there by my loving husband, John, only an hour ago. I remember that moment, its significance and meaning. Heart heavy, bitter sorrow surges again in my chest.

Smiles and tears at our parting. An emotional wrench to turn and walk away.

I catch a sob and, with conscious effort, suppress it beneath a swell of nervous anticipation.

There was the long bus ride into the city, self conscious of my attire among fellow passengers, anxious of premature discovery. The short walk through bustling, rain drenched streets. I yearned to blend in. But each step was a new experience of stiletto heel strike, adjusted gait and hip sway, and momentum to unbridled breasts that risked unwanted attention.

And here I am.

Eyes open.

He's there, just as he said he would be. Through the cafe window he raises a cup, sips, and turns the page of a newspaper. Something deep inside is urging me to cross the street to him. And yet, legs resist moving a body heavy with guilt. Puzzled, I look down at them.

Emotions spin and tumble like the autumn leaves caught in the swirls and eddies of rainwater flowing around my feet. My husband - my love - the centre of my life, and... This man. This opportunity to fulfil needs so long neglected.

Inertia quashed, rivulets trail across the floor from the cafe door to where I stand before him, coat and folded umbrella dripping, smile anxious and uncertain. He looks up. A welcoming smile dawns. He stands, offering a hand. We shake gently but firmly, and raindrops scatter from my sleeve across the table and his newspaper. Embarrassed, I laugh self-consciously. His laugh is warm, genuine amusement, and he gestures to the seat across from him.

His consideration and empathy is notable: No intrusive invasion of body space with stilted hug or awkward air kiss, no showy, old-school chivalry with a chair, just that genuinely friendly handshake and invitation to join him at his table for two. And his glance - that seemed to try to take in my whole body - gives me a warm, tingly feeling.

We exchange pleasantries. He asks what I'd like to drink and steps over to the barista's counter to place the order. I watch the hazy to-and-fro of headlamps and brake lights through the window's growing condensation. The warm, bright interior contrasts sharply with the cold, grey, darkening day outside. A chill of doubt sweeps into my troubled mind. He returns with fresh, steaming cups. The first sip of hot, sweet flavour and his smile warms away the chill and the cold, grey mood. At least for the moment.

He's about the same height as John, I think. He's smart-casual today: an expensive linen open-necked shirt, designer jeans, and tan leather shoes over a slim and healthy frame. He could be John's twin, an impression that's both disarmingly comforting and yet unsettling.

The air is filled with cafe chatter and barista shouts, punctuated by the frothy snarl of the hard working coffee machine.

"I'm delighted you decided to come," he begins, his voice quiet, calming, and deeply resonant. There's an awkward pause as I stir my coffee, staring thoughtfully into the briefly rippling latte foam. He continues, "But naturally, I'm curious. What helped you to decide?"

"John trusts you."

"Thank you," he smiles. "That really means a lot to me." A thoughtful pause. "And what about you? How do you feel about us meeting today?"

His dark eyes convey a softness and kindness reflecting genuine concern.

"I... I don't know." I can feel him watching me intently, looking for some clue, some revealing truth. "I honestly feel a confused mess inside. So many feelings, so many things spinning through my head. They're difficult to untangle."

He thinks for a moment then says, "So let's see if we can find out where we're starting." He turns toward the cafe window and draws three cartoon faces in the condensation with a finger: a sad face, a neutral face and a smiley face spaced along an imaginary line. "So if this was a scale from sad and upset to happy and excited, where do you think your feelings are right now?"

Impulsively, I draw an 'x' between the neutral and happy faces.

"Thank goodness," he chuckles. "But let's make sure of something really important." He pauses to sip his coffee, choosing his words. "You and John mean a lot to me." He reaches across the table and places his hand lightly over mine, looking serious. "If there's anything today - anything at all - that makes you feel bad, or upset, or in any way concerned, then you say 'stop' and we stop. Okay?"

I nodded. Some anxiety lifted a little and I smiled.

"And it goes without saying that if I feel something's wrong, I'm going to do the same." He looks cautiously at me and continues, "Remember, I've not done anything like this before either."

We laugh together, nervously. And our quiet laughter rings out, unintentionally: it lands into one of those strange instants of silence that suddenly descended, as though everyone's unrelated cafe conversations have simultaneously arrived at the same pause. For an uncomfortable moment I feel very conspicuous and exposed as eyes turn towards us. The feeling persists even though chatter gradually returns.

"Hungry?" he asks. I shake my head. "Me neither." With an uncertain smile he confesses, "I feel like I've swallowed a bucketful of live butterflies."

I smile. "Good to know that we feel the same."

After pausing again he says, "I think we have a lot to talk about. How about we go somewhere a little more private to catch up?"

"Go where?"

"Perhaps my hotel?" He ventures. Then, spotting my wry smile quickly adds, "Don't worry, they have a big lounge area next to the lobby. Big picture windows overlooking the sea, sofas, dusty fake plants - you know the sort of thing."

We chuckle together, take final sips, gather our belongings and leave.

It's still pouring. We hug together under my umbrella. His arm around me feels strong, firm, yet friendly, not possessive. Away from the coffee-infused cafe air and tucked in close, I catch the scent of something. He's wearing John's cologne. That's thoughtful of him.

It's a short walk through torrential, blustery rain to his boutique hotel on the seafront. As we approach the foot of the steps something compels me to stop. I stare up at the heavy, panelled door framed by ornate carved stone columns. Looking up, the building's Georgian facade looms under scudding dark grey rain clouds. Second thoughts course through my mind.

"Is something wrong?" He asks, clearly concerned.

"No... It's just..."

Patiently, he asks, "Would you prefer we go back to the cafe?"

"No. No, I..."

"Come inside and let's make those sofas in the lobby wet," he smiles. Almost without being aware of the decision I allow his arm around me to guide me up the steps and through the heavy door.

I sit on a large Chesterfield sofa in the lounge bar, surrounded by pots of those dusty plastic plants and muted decor hues. Cheesy bossa nova jazz quietly drifts in the warm air adding to the clichéd environment. Blustery raindrops rattle across the bay window through which I stare, watching surging storm waves crashing over the beach.

Bringing two more coffees from the bar, he sits next to me and asks, "Don't you want to take that soaking coat off?"

I shake my head.

"Oh." He looks concerned. "Keeping your options open for a quick escape, I suppose."

He's right, in a way. That's partially true. But he's not aware of my secret immodesty. I feel a warm flush cross my face and another flutter in my chest, suddenly very self-conscious. But dressing as I have is the only way of ensuring that, if I choose to, my commitment would be decisive and clear with no risk of second thoughts.

We sit in an awkward silence for a moment, sipping the hot coffee. It's terrible. But at least it's hot. He's visibly shivering, wet shirt and jeans clinging, his soaked jacket discarded over the arm of the sofa.

"Look," he begins, reluctantly, "I know we haven't had chance to talk yet, but I really need to go and get changed out of these wet things." He looks into my eyes intently. "I'm really hoping that you'll still be here when I get back. But if you're not... It's okay. I'll understand."

With an uncertain smile he stands and hurries out of the lounge.

Oh God! I really don't want to be alone. Not here. Not now. Being alone means I'll start thinking and... I don't want to do that. Uncertainty, guilt and shame wash in; an urge to flee home is only barely suppressed. I need to be reassured, guided, to be kept moving with momentum. I'm suddenly aware of wet cheeks. Not rain, tears. Emotions are as turbulent as the storm-roughed sea outside. A sharp, painful sob catches high in my chest. Oh John...

"Thank you." He's smiling; fresh shirt, dry jeans, walking confidently toward me. "I'm so glad you..." His smile fades quickly as he sees my sorrow. He sits next to me, takes my hand. "Look, I know I have poor taste, but I didn't expect you to look at this shirt and cry!"

Sorrow punctured, we laugh, mood yanked suddenly upward again as he pulls me from chill waters. It's that strange, half laugh, half sob moment where you feel so ridiculously mixed up.

His smile fades to kind concern. "I'm sorry. I appreciate something is upsetting you. I can call you a cab if you want to..."

"No." I interrupt him. "No. I need to talk with you." I hastily wipe away tears, sniffing. Deep breath. Another conscious effort to recover and focus. His warm smile eases the effort. I continue, "We both know why we're here."

"Because John feels that you're unhappy."

"Yes."

"And he thinks that I can help with that."

I nod, hesitantly, my smile uncertain.

He continues, "But the important thing is - how do you feel about that?"

"I feel..." I'm struggling to find words. The empty place in my soul feels suddenly raw. "I feel... incomplete." He looks puzzled, so I continue. "I'm intensely, deeply in love with John." I close my eyes, recalling last night. "I love to feel his warm skin against mine, his tender touch. I feel safe and loved. He smells of love!" I giggle, realising how ridiculous that sounds, but it's true. "His kisses are so delicious - they melt me..." I realise that I'm staring out of the window at the turbulent rising tide, and turn back to face him. "But I also feel... incomplete."

He's smiling, not pitifully but kindly with attractive wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. My God those eyes! Like John's they're so deep, dark, intense - they reach into my soul! A warm tingling betrays something deeply hidden.

He's silent, patiently waiting, giving me the space to think and find a way to express what I feel.

I continue, quietly. "John understands how I feel, although we've never spoken about it. When we're together, close, I feel his intense frustration and sadness. He so wants to show his love. He can't... Not any more. It's so awful for him. And he sees my sadness." The words catch in my throat, tears welling. "So he suggested that I meet with you. To see if you could... To have a chance to feel..."

I tumble over the edge and tears flow. My chest and throat ache, filled with grief for John. 'In sickness and in health. Forsaking all others...' The words echo through my mind. The craving for fulfilment claws and tugs at my honour and integrity as a shameful betrayal. And yet, John has shown such incredible strength and courage. His solemn understanding and acceptance of his frailty. His loving gift: the offer to feel complete again, without him.

My thoughts are pulled back to the here and now as this man leans forward and wraps me in his arms, drawing me to him. I weep into his shoulder. He holds me, firmly, silently, allowing my deep sorrow to run its course. I feel him tremor, a splash on my neck, and realise that he's weeping, too.

I lose track of time.

Eventually, there's a strange feeling of painful hollow emptiness inside and I can cry no more. With monumental effort, I drag myself into some semblance of composure, sitting up and wiping my face on a napkin. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"No," he interrupts, offering me a tissue. "You have absolutely nothing at all to be sorry about. You're an incredible woman. You're deeply in love with John and you care about him so much." He reaches forward, taking my hands in his. The tenderness of that simple contact makes me shiver. "Listen. You have no idea how humbled I felt when John explained and asked me to meet with you. And I have absolutely no idea if - or how - this is going to work out. But I do know that you both mean a lot to me. And you, in particular - I've always had a soft spot for you." He hesitates, looking away wistfully for a moment and I sense something, a reluctance. "Look, since my Jenny passed... There has never been another." He sighs deeply and looks into my eyes again, "I'm feeling pretty incomplete, too."

Although his tone is calm and understanding, his words hit home hard. I'm shocked by my crass, selfish focus. Damn my foolish ignorance! Why hadn't I thought of Jenny?

"Oh God! I'm so sorry! I didn't..."

"I know. It's okay," he interrupts, quietly. Those kind, intensely dark eyes smile again, although with a clear sadness. "Listen," he continues, "You know her. You know how close we were with you and John. I think she'd be happy that, whatever happens today, that we tried to help each other."

I lean in to him and kiss, a mere touching of the lips. "For Jenny, then."

"And for John." He returns the kiss. But it's different. His kiss is meaningful, warm, intimate, making little chills chase themselves up and down my back. Inside, guilt and shame shift a little.

He pulls back. There is uncertainty, and even fear, in his eyes as though he has shocked himself with the line he has just crossed. That fear fades as he seems to find something in my eyes... He leans forward and we kiss again. A warm glow blooms, our surroundings fade as my whole world becomes that simple, soft, delicate contact. Eyes closed. I taste him; inhale his scent. His lips barely touch yet a sparkling fizz spreads through my body. Something long suppressed stirs within. Something base and primal.

Footsteps.

We quickly separate as an older, grey-haired lady strides noisily into the lounge and sits heavily into a nearby wing-backed, upholstered chair. She glares at us over the top of a newspaper that she purposefully opens with a loud, rustling flourish.

Glancing at each other we burst into embarrassed giggles like teenagers found out. And there's the briefest of moments where humour trails away, his eyes meet mine and something meaningful passes between us: a silent collusion. I hear the cries of my conscience - faint and distant - screaming protests, as a devil whispers, close, into my ear. Standing, he suggests that we go somewhere more private to continue our conversation. I nod, stand slowly and, talking his hand, we walk across the lobby toward the stairs.

His hand feels strong, with the light callouses of a craftsman, yet gentle. We walk in silence. Our mutual commitment. John's gift... Inner butterflies are driven aside by the feeling of my heart, thumping with such energy that I feel my chest resonate.

And as we reach the first floor landing, his strong hands on my back pull me into his firm body. Lips touch and part. Tongues tentatively make contact, taste each other and explore. The world recedes again as mouths and bodies wrapped in each other's arms become the centre of our universe. The temperature rises again igniting a slow, smouldering seduction.

Somehow we're at a room. His key rattles in the lock. He steps backwards inside and...

Suddenly I stop and let go, pulling back.

He stands, waiting silently, patiently, arm outstretched, fingers gently held. His hold on my fingertips is so weak that I could just shake him off and be free - turn and walk away, walk out into the rain, back to the bus, home, and John. But I don't. There's something compelling about that delicate connection, his empathy, his sincerity to offer that choice - and those smouldering, dark eyes wrinkled with a warm, genuine smile. I feel the burden of consequences in the decision of this moment.

Unbidden, hesitant legs carry me forward... He leads me slowly inside...

And for the first time in twenty nine years I'm standing in a hotel bedroom with a man that is not my husband.

He turns, briefly, placing his cellphone on a desk.

The door swings closed behind me. The clunk of the latch echoes loudly, decisively. I sense the rest of the world left outside, feeling a sudden relief as if guilt, anxiety and sadness are left out there with it. Unburdened, lurking primal cravings flow into the vacuum they leave behind, and - subconsciously - options are discarded before the echo fades: my hands have unbuckled the belt around my raincoat and fingers are unbuttoning. He turns back and, with delight, watches as I shrug the rain-soaked coat off my shoulders. It pools at my feet revealing the naked, wanton woman in heels.

There's a delicious moment under the sweep of his lustful gaze when I feel so desired. An intense thrill rushes through my whole body, raising goosebumps.

He steps forward. We embrace and kiss gently, mindfully, an appreciation of each other's presence. I feel his firm body radiating warmth, and feel the texture of his clothing across my skin. The atmosphere crackles with sexual energy. He nuzzles my neck right on that sweet spot below my left ear sending ripples of intense erotic pleasure racing, and a rush of heat and wetness from my sex. The air is filled with our scent as his fingertips caress tenderly across my back sending an intense thrill chasing down my spine.

My world spins dizzily, as strong arms slowly lower me until I sink into the surface of the thick, soft duvet.

He stands back, smiling, eyes filled with desire. "I think I'm a little overdressed for the occasion," he quips as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. I watch, feeling a warm, sexy buzz, as he picks my discarded coat from the floor, hanging it with care to dry. He pauses then slowly undresses, folding and placing things carefully and neatly on a chair in the corner.

There's a brief recognition, a familiarity in his movements and manners, a realisation that brings comfort, as if I'm watching John, and yet...

Thoughts are disrupted as he turns back toward me and his passion is revealed, swaying proud, erect and strong. My loins ignite, yearning, and I feel a warm, wet trickle. In that moment, there is no room for anything else but the overwhelming need that consumes us, a need that can only be satisfied by the primal entanglement of souls.

He slips the shoes from my feet then whispers, "Close your eyes." I feel the texture of his lips on my exposed skin; feather kisses slowly ascending from my toes to my face. I allow his hands to explore, caressing the swell of my breasts, then trailing delicately down over my tummy and through trimmed hairs. One finger finds my firm, emerging little bud and presses against it. My whole body trembles, adding another flush of warmth in my now-drenched sex. I'm as ready for a man as I would ever be, purring with contentment. Right here, right now I crave to feel him slide inside.