Grieving

Rose steps out of her car and enters the house through the garage. She is wearing a faded pair of jeans a forest green top that faux ties at the waist.  My eyes are drawn to the curve of her waist and the pale white skin that is exposed there.  She is not wearing a bra. She never wears a bra, and I can clearly see the outline of her nipples pressing against the thin material of her top.

We sit on the couch, and we talk.  Rose is content to listen to me ramble.  She is very easy to be around.  She is calculatedly attentive, and we caress each other's hands and legs while we talk.

I unleash a steady stream of stories while occasionally trying to pull some from her.  She is evasive about herself.  She lies about herself.   She has always lied because the truth is either too embarrassing or too painful.  I would like to hear the truth.  It would not change the way I think of her.  I save each grain of truth she does reveal to slowly paint a complete picture.

"You know everything about me, Rose,"  I tell her.  "I don't hold anything back. My ex-girlfriend is a heroin addict.  What could be worse than that?  If I killed someone, I would probably tell you."

"I would help you bury the body."  She tells me with a giggle.  Her remark leads me off into a story about dreams and dead bodies. My story ends in me saying maybe THAT was too much information.

She excuses herself to use the bathroom.  I put on a selection of Dave Mathews Band songs to set the mood.  When she comes back, she straddles my lap and sways to the music.  Rose takes off her top and allows me to caress her bare torso.  After a time, she stands in front of me and takes off her jeans.  She is wearing a pink lace thong beneath.

She lets out light moans as she moves against me.  They are more show than reality, but they have the same effect.  She alternates facing toward me with facing away and leaning back against me.  Her grinding becomes more intense, and I am fully erect.  She allows my hand to slip down between her thighs, and now our bodies are moving in unison.  My hands are on her thighs, and I hold her tightly against me as I release.

Things slow, and we lay on the couch together after.  She is in no hurry to leave.  I lower my voice and continue talking as she closes her eyes.  I tell her I want this to be where she can go to get away from her drama.  Before she leaves, I tell her, "We can work out an arrangement, whatever way makes you comfortable.  You just have to tell me what you want."

The following day I was reluctant to leave my bed.  I found myself missing Billy more than usual.  My mind begins to compare Rose and Billie.  It is a ridiculous exercise. I thought Rose would be a distraction to shift my thoughts away from Billie. Our physical contact just reminded me what I was missing.

The urge to reach out to Billie was powerful this morning.  I almost gave in to the need. I think about the softness of Billie's skin, and I break down. My mind and body are hurting, and she is the cure I desperately want, but she is out of reach.

Rose is lovely, and she likes hanging out with me, but Billie loved me once, and I am still grieving the loss of that love.