Silly Question

He is in bed. Her naked body just inches away from him. Her white, creamy shoulder is barley a touch away. He looks at the stains of the lipstick she wore last night and thinks to himself, ‘that will be difficult to clean.’ He continues to stare at her sleeping, weightless body. He is thinking how best to answer the question she, his wife, had asked last night.  Fortunately, he thinks that the she from his past has already prepared him for this day.

‘What will you tell her when I come up in your conversations?’, she had often asked. He had brushed her questions aside calling them, ‘silly’. If she would insist, he would take a deep breath, hold her by her shoulders and then with one hand would push back the hair, which covered her entire forehead and seemed dangerously close to shading her eyes. He still believes that he wanted to answer her. Tell her, there will be no other her. The only one for him is she—the one with short hair, the lopsided grin, mischief in her sad, sad eyes. Yet, one look at those pink, soft, naked lips and all he could do was, kiss her so hard that she would forget her own doubts and questions.

She wakes up and as she does daily, looks at him, opening only her left eye. His eyes are closed, the calm rhythm of his breath betrays no signs of the wild night they were recovering from. She had tossed her long, luscious, black hair over her white, creamy shoulders in one swift move. She had lowered her eyes, just a little bit longer than necessary and then had raised her head slowly to meet his gaze. 

Earlier in the evening, she did have a headache. She was cranky and had wanted some answers. She had asked him about his past and regretted the question as soon as it had been asked. She had seen the same question for her in his eyes. Thankfully, she had recovered fast. She knew the only way to escape this exchange of information was passion. She had used that to ensure that questions were never asked.