by Dexter F. I. Joseph

You are a lover, a peter, the best thing your partner or any other which comes your way in the future, should fate be a bitch with the first, would ever come close to owning. Given, and with true facts, perfection is a long mile away from you, but deep within the cores of your red pumping engine of a large yet frail heart you know yourself, the length you’d willingly go to be the best for yourself and those around you.

So to speak, you are a product of a dysfunctional home, one which has taught you to pursue strength, peace and love like your life depends on it. And that very much has paid off. You’re happily married, to the very best human being while the world still has people walking on two legs.

Work is over. A very hectic day. You pace into the house tired and shook to your very strained marrows, feet scuffling across the tiled floor as you make for the living room. All is so well arranged and tidy you nearly shudder with gladness at the sort of spouse providence had carefully selected for you irregardless of how foolish you come close to being when it comes to decision making.

Deciding against not spoiling this perfect work of art; being the perfectly arranged living room, you drag your fagged self to the bedroom to guttle down some rest. To demand the comfy bed give you what it owes you; love, warmth and a comfy long night sleep.

“You seem tired, babe.” You hear the voice, soft and romantic. It comes from the bathroom. The sound of the running shower envelopes your ears. You get excited where you stand, and are you not too weak to pull yourself up from the bed, you’d be stripping and zooming into that shower yourself, to devour them right there and then. Now, these thoughts make you titter.

“Tell me about it. Work is hectic these days. The excuse to have us suffer is that we’re in the seasons,” you say, letting your sigh take more prominence in your utterance.

“Need a massage?” their voice comes again.

Oh yes, that touch, the stiff yet softness of it. You’d kill for something like that right now, so you nod, muffling into the pillow, “uh-huh.”

“Just give me a minute then.”

You can’t turn, even if you desire to. Your muscles are too weak, drawn to their limits like love thrown to a bitter, broken woman who’d never change, or a casanovic rascal who loves nothing but the almond and chocolate smell of their lotion-soaked armpits. You just let your ears guide you instead.

Their footsteps crawl gently out of the bathroom, to the wardrobe. You hear the towel move around their body. That typical viscid smell, aloe vera and another awfully mesmerising scent you can’t tell its name. They walk up to you and climb right atop you, giggling as you shudder to their skin’s lock on yours.

“You’re a devil, you know that right?” you smile, thinking of the lengths you’d willingly go for them.

They giggle, hand pressing gently against your shoulder. Moving gracefully. The menthol-laced lotion on their hand makes you freeze from within. Once again you’ve been thrown into the twelfth heaven with just a touch.

Those hands move down, following the lines of your bones, your spine. They press gently, the perfect spots, the perfect pressure, the perfect hands. It makes you shudder and they laugh to the effects they know to have on you.

“You’re killing me right now,” you mumble as the rush of ease weakens you, prepping you up for a dose of drowsiness.

“Yes,” they say. “I’m aware, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen, but no words escape your mouth. That scent, clouded by the smell of… you freeze where you are, a lump of blinding pain coursing through your body. You quiver.

“I wouldn’t be called Adams, otherwise.” They giggle.

That voice, excited, different, new, swirls in the depths of your fading mind, alongside the thick smell of blood that’s your own. You can’t move nor do a thing but feel the pain from behind you suck life out of you. Then as everything dims out to you, a hysterical blast of laughter hangs just at the tip of what’s left of your fading life. A laugh that’s definitely not your partner’s.

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