Crumbling

Disclaimer: you thought I was done with this, didn't you? Well, this creative writing experiment is drawing to a close, as you'll see with this latest installment. Standard boilerplate applies: this is just creative writing, not my real life (THANK GOD!!).

I crave my bien aimé.

I need his hands to anchor mine, stretched high above my head, while our mouths meld. I need the lean line of his body flush against mine, pressing me into the mattress. I need his legs tangling with mine, touching every nerve and pulse point at their sensitive juncture. I need the tenderness of his kisses, the surety of his hands on my body, the feel of his arousal rampant against my belly.

I need to feel physically, because I am numb emotionally. I sit in my place on the sofa, hands running over the smooth leather cover of an old book. My husband sits in his chair, pointedly ignoring my presence, yet covertly curling his lip at me when he thinks I cannot see. His cold disdain would be more cutting than his hot anger was last night, were I invested in it. Where there were accusations, fury, and boiling emotions now there is icy disapproval. Intellectually, it is sad that he hurts, but in my heart, I am not sorry. No, I am not.

The book in my lap is from my school days. It is by an Italian writer, dating from the Middle Ages, full of stories from that time. One, in particular, begs to be read. It is of a lady, Madonna Filippa, who was caught being unfaithful to her husband and brought before the court for punishment. Once there, she calmly told the court her tale: she had a wealth of love to give, but her husband did not want it all. He turned her away when she sought to give it to him. She never denied him her love, but being so constantly turned away left her with a surplus. What was she to do with it? She very practically found a willing recipient and gave it away.

I am not sorry that he hurts, because for years, he turned me away. He denied me. He withheld his affection, and left me with a surplus of love to give. Our relationship became unbalanced, and the foundations, once solid, began to crumble under the unequal weight. Now it is rubble and dust at my feet, creating mountains of emotional debris to climb over.

Boccacio’s common-sense solution hasn’t worked well for me, as I am unable to remain as composed and insouciant as Madonna Filippa. Instead, I am numb.