The house is quiet, the windows dark as I pull up. The tree-lined street seems to be holding its breath in the late summer heat, waiting for the thunderstorm building on the horizon. I open my car door and step out, thoughts on chores and and tasks, lists and commitments.
On how many days it is till I see him again.
I let myself in, stumbling over the threshold from the garage to the mud room and fumbling for the light switch. I’m still not used to this house and where everything lives.
It’s odd being here when they are not. This house…feels so different than the other. So ripe with possibility and promise. Maybe it is only the faint melancholy of the past that taints my memories of the other house. Here we have a new start.
I water the plants, take the trash bins to the curb, check to make sure the faucet hasn’t sprung a leak. Downstairs, I tip out the water from the humidifier, then pause, listening.
If I listen closely enough, I can hear my sighs as his hands touched me, the last time I was here. If I look closely enough, I can see the marks on my wrists from the rope he tied me with. Upstairs, if I breath deeply enough, I can smell his scent on the pillows, and my scent too, marking the bed we sleep in.
I lay on that bed now, and think of him. I open my legs and touch myself, spreading open the delicate folds of my labia, baring myself to the empty house. I lick my fingers and stroke the swelling bud of my clitoris, aching to feel his touch, to hear his voice, to smell his skin. My body arches has excitement begins to take me and I push a finger, then two, deep inside. I am soft and quivering and pulsing inside.
Slowly, carefully, I bring myself down. Down from that place I was climbing to, down from ecstasy tinged by melancholy, back down to the here and now, where I am here and he is there. I lick my fingers clean, savoring the taste of myself – aroused by him even when he is not here.
Locking up the house, walking back to my car, I look back at the empty house one last time. Twelve days, I think, knowing in the scheme of things it’s really nothing. But at the moment, it seems like forever.