Her fingers are walking up the buttons of his tuxedo while her hair loosens and falls from its coil, the ends still wet from the falls. He has the zipper of her dress between his thumb and forefinger, but there is something glorious about hovering in this moment with her. She reaches back and lets her hair fall down around his face and then there is nothing but her. But there was always nothing but her, wasn’t there?
“Did I break your heart?” she asks, using that tone of voice reserved for their history. Teasing, but serious. Still cautious about bringing it up, but still too curious to not bring it up. Or maybe now it’s just wonderment that they were ever something else, that they were ever not a first person plural. Or sometimes he thinks maybe they miss that longing, that pain, maybe they were both alive then in a way that they could never duplicate. He feels the slightest thrill when she brings it up, and he still isn’t sure how to explain that.
“Yes,” he answers. His mouth reaches for hers, but she backs away at the last second, leaving him arching. He collapses back against the headboard. “You still do.”
She comes down again, and he smells freshwater, perfume. “Tell me how to fix it,” she says, breathing the words against his throat.
His hands move along her thighs and stop at the now familiar swell of her middle. “You can’t,” he says. “I don’t want you to.”
She kisses him then, finally, his wife.
unfold is the author of 102 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 2 members. Members who liked Fix It also liked 1225 other stories.
