"Ms. Odell has captured the essence of a genuine love affair -- the frank fascination of each partner with the other, and the 'words' that carry this fascination from one heart to another. Reading Odell's silky prose sent me off to find my own wife and give her a kiss and a hug -- for starters." William Penrose.
WORDS
by
Terry Odell
Copyright © 2010 by Terry Odell
WORDS
His
He leans against the bathroom doorjamb, a silent observer, as she applies her makeup for work. Engrossed, she doesn't seem to notice him. She reaches for one of her tiny brushes, and he sees the swell of her breasts press against her blouse. The silken fabric of her slip rises along the back of her thighs as she moves. His chest pounds, and it is as if she hears, because she turns to him and smiles.
"What?" she says and returns to her mirror. She's darkening those long, thick eyelashes. He wonders how she keeps from poking herself in the eye.
"Nothing." She can't possibly understand how every little thing she does sends a thrill through him. He fingers the gold band on his left hand. Still shiny with its newness, yet it feels as if it has been there his entire life. Or that his life began two months ago when she slipped it on his finger. He wonders yet again what she sees in him, the carpenter—she of the steel and glass skyscraper world, he rooted to the wood and his tools.
"You've seen me put on makeup before." Her casual tone breaks the spell for a moment.
"Seen, yes. But I never really gave any thought to the process."
"Well, the natural look takes a lot of work." She stares at him as if to say, "Go. Find something productive to do", and turns back to the mirror.
He folds his arms and stays where he is. He can't get enough of her, this woman who has joined him in his house, his home, his being. The tilt of her head, the way she bites her lower lip when she reads the paper, her front tooth that leans ever so slightly across its neighbor. She reaches up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind one ear. One of those chestnut curls that bounces when she moves, and brushes like so many feathers against his chest as she plants her kisses while they make love. Love. Only now, since she has come to him, does he even begin to understand the concept of that word.
Every time they are joined, he feels her offer everything, and he accepts it, and returns it without reservation. Something he's never done before. Before her, he knew only physical release. There has always been that part of him that he kept inside, that he let no one see, and yet he shows it to her over and over again. With her, there is no holding back.
"You've got that funny look on your face again," she says. "What are you thinking?"
Surely she knows. Everything he does professes his love. She must feel it, the tangible evidence of what she means to him. How can mere words ever convey what he feels? She must understand the words she longs to hear are present in every sentence he utters.
He has to swallow several times before he can summon up a casual reply. "Nothing. Just wondering how long you'll be."
She lifts her tube of lipstick, twists the cream upward, and stares at it as if it holds the answer to some eternal question. Then he watches as she retracts it, snaps on the cap, and replaces it in the caddy on the counter. She shakes out her curls and faces him, her unadorned lips parted, the chocolate depths of her eyes made even deeper by her ministrations. "I can be late."
His heart stops, and he has to wait for it to begin beating again before he can take her hand and lead her to the bedroom, although in reality, she is doing the leading. She has his heart, and wherever she takes it, he must follow. He studies her tapered fingers as, one by one, she releases the buttons on her blouse. Does he detect a slight trembling there, while he fights to control his own fingers as he matches her moves? Or are hers steady as she reveals the tanned flesh beneath the blue fabric an inch at a time?
His arousal is painful now, and he unfastens his belt buckle and unbuttons his jeans. Her eyes are molten chocolate, and he cannot remove his gaze from them. Her hands cover his, and she slowly lowers his zipper. The sound, as the metal teeth part, has him holding his breath in anticipation, and she reaches for him. Her hand is cool against the heat of his flesh, and he presses against her. Her lips meet his, and he smells her perfume, tastes her toothpaste, feels the warmth of her breath as she probes his mouth. He returns her kisses and their passion grows, and it is here, he thinks, that their souls begin to merge. Both giving, both taking, yet neither dominating.
Clothing disappears, and they sink together as one onto the pale blue sheets. And when she takes him inside her, he is lost in her enchantment. She has bewitched him, this bride of his, and he resolves that he will do anything and everything to maintain the magic. This time, he can allow his words to escape first, as the speaker, not the echo. He brings his lips close to her ear.
"I love you."