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Intimate Stranger

by Noel Kathryn 2 years ago in humanity
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False comfort evaporates when one realizes that it is not the act that is the true crime, but rather using it to avoid seeing the real stranger ... inside.

Intimate Stranger

False comfort evaporates when one realizes that it is not the act that is the true crime, but rather using it to avoid seeing the real stranger ... inside.

She cries in perfect silence, her tears edging their way across her temples, making the pillow moist. The only sound is the even breathing on the other side of the bed. She is thankful for the darkness that hides her misery. Her masquerade remains undiscovered.

They each lay bare, side by side, the blankets still at the foot of the bed with discarded clothes and forgotten intentions. And that which she wanted so much is now done, and the dull ache that it leaves will linger long after the perspiration evaporates from her unclothed body.

If all was right, this moment of darkness and perspiration and the gentle, even breaths from next to her would mix with the satisfied, richly fulfilled tremors that slowly escape her body, providing a beautiful feeling long after the bond is made. Moments would reanimate with a golden glow like a beautiful old movie, slowly played over and over in her mind. Every detail remembered. Every sense peaked. Every motion synchronized. Indeed, this would be ecstasy.

Instead, this is prison. Trapped inside a body that went through the motions, the façade perpetuated by whispered messages of delight. But the pain grows. Behind the touches and the rhythms that can only be made by two, and the breath caught in an orgasm that never comes, the ache is not cured, but instead multiplies in intensity. The climax that brings exquisite pleasure in one, only marks the pain in another.

Oblivious, he rolls over, satisfied in a job well done. The peace of sleep overtakes him immediately. She is thankful for the privacy, feeling so distant from someone only inches away from her.

The intimacy craved could not be reached, not even from deep inside her, not even when bare bodies hide no secrets, except those that cannot be seen.

She slowly edges off of the bed and feels her way in the darkness to the bathroom. Flipping the light switch, the stark light blinds her. Slowly, sight returns, and the image of a young woman drowning in sorrow gradually emerges before her.

Framed in the reflection of the medicine cabinet, she sees the inevitable effects of deep sadness ... the red, swollen eyes, the discolored streaks that line her face, remnants of mascara smeared here and there. A warm washcloth takes away the soil, but not the pain. The tears do not stop.

She knows the drill. He was genuine in his intent all along, and had every reason to believe that she was a player in the same game. After all, she was a brilliant actress, often captivating even the most cynical of audiences ... herself.

No more. She cannot bear the idea of carrying out this façade a second longer.

And yet, to share one shred of this truth here is beyond her. Suddenly this seems far more intimate than this physical connection already made.

One of the most beautiful and treasured acts was reduced to a quest for brief physical satisfaction ... and what was achieved instead spread like an acid, eroding the delicate foundation of values. So easily eaten away, a little at a time, until all that is left is the raw, sad truth. The tears do not stop.

She is desperate to escape, to face the pain alone, ironically seeming less lonely than being close to someone who cannot realize the obvious.

Silently, she stands at the bathroom doorway until her eyes adjust again to the darkness. She retraces her path, and feels for her clothing strewn across the floor at the end of the bed. Again returning the solace of the bathroom, she redresses.

Gliding slowly in the darkness, not to make a noise, she scoops up her purse and runs her fingertips across the table to find her earrings. The ache inside her twinges with a pang of fear. She prays to escape undiscovered.

She slips into her shoes and praises the carpet that muffles the click of her heels. Gently, she slips out the front door and retreats down the hall stairs, listening for the quiet latch returning into place behind her. No goodbyes. The tears do not stop.

humanity

About the author

Noel Kathryn

Fabulous career, but my journey was cut short by MS. Owned huge homes. Been homeless.Once self-made, now disability is how I roll.

Grew up Jewish and my name MEANS Christmas. I am a dichotomy!

I'm a delight. What more do you need to know?

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