Already published in Amazon, it may be on paper soon.
She had been married for eight years, and she was eager to be a mother. However, when he asked her about protection, she was not very clear.
«Are you on the pill?»
«No, not really. But I think I can't have a baby, since I've been trying for years and I have not been successful till now».
«You should have a doctor tell you this».
«Well, of course».
So he used the male protection: he used a condom.
That did not make her very happy, though. She said it was not the same, and promised to go to the doctor and ask for a genetic study just to be sure. In fact she'd not done so before because she'd not want to know she was not fertile. She liked to think she did not get pregnant for any other cause. But certifying she could not have babies would be like dying for her: the death of her one nice dream: to be a mother.
She told him she had never made love with anyone but her husband and so their first time was very hard for her: she was very reluctant and she could not stand penetration and started crying and went away before they could do anything. And the next time it happened the same thing: she tried, but she could not.
She felt so guilty that she decided not to see him again. She was ashamed of herself to have been in bed with a man who was not her husband. But then she missed him. She missed him terribly when she came home after a long day's work and found her husband lying on the sofa watching TV, or even worse, gone to the pub with his friends. She did not like going there, to the pub, not after a long, tiring day. She only felt like having a shower and going to bed. She had been to the pub a long time ago, and she realized those people had nothing inside them. They all felt the same, said the same things, and led a dull life. Hers was dull, too, but she was conscious of it and tried to make it a bit brighter every day. But getting together just to drink beer was like belonging to a sort of sect, the beer sect, and she felt like an unbeliever in such a temple, the pub. That's why she decided not to go again there. And then she had met Arnold. He had brought a difference into her life. He had taken her to a nice hotel, he had treated her like a lady, and at the nicest moment, when she was going to give herself in, she found that she could not. Because of her culture, her education, her tradition... A married lady simply does not go to bed with a man who is not her husband. But she had been to bed with a man who was her husband for the last eight years and she was not happy about it, and very rarely excited. At first everything had been ok, but her husband had no connection with her, no nice details, he even did not kiss her any longer. In fact Arnold had kissed her more times in a week than her husband in years. And she needed to feel desired, wanted, to be kissed by a man who felt her kisses were important for him. To her husband kisses were a sort of compulsory requirement to have a screw, since they no longer made love. Yes, he called it love, all right. But it was something mechanical, automatic, not really related to love. However, Arnold's kisses were really felt and, what's more important, made her feel she was important to him. So who cares if either of them is married to somebody else? What counted was the thrill of the moment, she told herself. And she had been stupid enough to disregard the nicest event in her life just because of a thing so ethereal as conscience or morals, or what is not right. But to feel the thrill she felt inside Arnold's arms she'd like to be wrong as long as he wanted to hold her. Was that surrendering to him? If so, she'd surrender to him as soon as she could, as long as he'd take her and —she breathed deeply as she thought of it— in such a depth as he chose. And then she phoned him again:
«Patricia! It's good to hear you again! How's life? Is it good to you?»
«My life ceased to be good at the minute I stopped seeing you, Arnold».
«Well..., I do not know what to say... Are you no longer feeling guilty, Patricia?»
«Yes, I'm feeling very guilty I was stupid enough not to come closer to you when I could, Arnold».
«So you're not having me back, are you?»
«Well, dear, we have to talk it slowly. When can we meet?»
«Right now, if you can. I can tell my boss I'm sick and go and see you».
«I can't now, Patricia. Let's take it easy... I'll be free on Saturday. I'll fetch you and we'll go somewhere quiet and talk , Ok?»
«Ok, then. Saturday at six, agreed?»
«Ok. I'll go for you at work».
That evening Arnold was at her working place at six sharp. They went to the cafeteria of the hotel where they had been together the previous times. She had told her husband she had to discuss a serious family matter with Aloisa, her sister. But the serious matter was their future relationship, hers and Arnold's.
«Well, so what's the difference now, dear?», Arnold said. They had asked for a couple of drinks and were now facing each other.
«My life is dull without you, Arnold. I come home after work and I can see only my husband, who is tired from work and when he is not at the pub with his friends, he is lying over there, on the sofa, like a dog, watching TV and scarcely greeting me when I come home. He complains about everything and then when I go to bed he's usually already sleeping».
«Well, that's the kind of life you like, Pat».
«The hell it is. That is my life routine. I wish I could change that. Any change would be great».
«Well, I thought you did not want to see me again, dear».
«Of course I do. The moments I spent with you are the best memories I have on the last years».
«But we've known each other for only a few weeks».
«So you can imagine the rest of my weeks piling on one another during those years».
«But..., I thought you loved your husband?»
«And I did, Arnold. But routine kills love. When you get bored with someone you can be sure you no longer love him».
«So I can think you don't get bored with me so far...«
«I'd never get bored with you, darling. You treat me as if I were a lady».
«Of course you are a lady, Pat. You are MY lady».
«Oh, thanks, dear. Now I'd like you to hug me».
But Arnold did not hug her. He smiled at her, instead. He heard her out. She told him she had thought it over. She no longer had any itch in her conscience: she was sure she loved him, and if he wanted her in his bed, she'd be there. He warned her not to fall in love with him, but she told him his warning was a few weeks late: she was already in love with him.
He wondered how a young beauty like her could be in love with someone like him: he more than doubled her age, his interests were very different from hers, she was longing to have a baby, and he had three grown up children, the youngest of whom was older than Patricia. She had a good job, and so had her husband, who was a young man one or two years older than her, and both of them had a whole life in front of them. On the opposite he, Arnold, was a retired man, with little, white hair, he got tired easily and could not work for very long. He had to walk for an hour every day, at least, and more often than not he had to pay a visit to the doctor. He was right the opposite to a sex symbol for a girl so beautiful and nice as she was. However, she was there telling him she loved him, and he could not believe it.
He took her hand, and kissed it.
«Darling», he said, «you are touching my heart. Are you sure you want to come upstairs with me tonight?»
Her answer was more than striking to him:
She did a series of strange movements on her chair, and then gave something to him: her thong.
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