This was originally for a friend, thought I'd share.
Enjoy!
Not many people are lucky enough to know what love is.
Oh, how many times she's heard that line. Even as a kid, she had mocked it.
She's looking at the back-framed screen- a woman, a tiny microphone sticking out her collar, speaking words she's sure she could understand if she paid attention, if she could actually see the woman and not his face.
It's all about that; the pretense.
Pretending, for nearly six years.
She's sitting on her couch, a cushion is missing, and she looks down, at the TV put on the floor, a tall much-needed wine glass now almost down to the last third. Wine makes it better, flooding her brain, which had been thinking way too much. And, because when she allows herself, she can feel his arms around her, the safe haven he creates. If she dares, she can hear laughter and feel pointy tiny doll heels digging into her foot making her want to scream at him for allowing the kids to make a mess.
If she's brave, she can still feel heated kisses and her throat hoarse from passionate moans, and toe-curling passion spreading through her. Instead, all she can feel is the cold. She pulls her robe tighter, as if the fabric can magically bring the missing human heat her body's asking for.
One more night...
She turns off the TV, one eye hugging the lively city. She's absolutely positive; someone will ask for her help. Well, when she stops seeing her picture glued on every news channel. She looks at the apartment. She wants to feel some regret, some attachment to it, but all she can see is blood, and arguments, and cowardice.
"It's all about moving on," she whispers to herself, hearing her therapist's voice more than her own.
Therapist? Six years ago, she would have laughed straight to your face.
She can't do it anymore.
Her life is packed into boxes.
Her photo is out there.
Her secret is out there.
They're out there.
Yet, he still wants her.
No, it wasn't about the secrecy.
She twirls the ring on her finger; in six months you'll call her Mrs. Grant…. And God, she so wants it. It's there for her to grab.
The phone rings. She knows it's him.
Hi.
She laughs, a real one this time.
"All packed?"
"Speech done?"
"Yes, by tomorrow morning they'll know. And the truth this time."
"Good."
"Liv, that-it doesn't matter. Unless you're the First Lady, then I'll stay. No questions asked."
"Two years in the White House? Nah, I'll pass."
She shuts down her eyelids, and he closes his eyes. And he can almost see her start to pace; he needs to change the subject.
"One step at a time. Don't dwell." their therapist's voice echoes in his mind.
"All packed?"
"I'm leaving the piano and the couch here."
"You love that piano."
"Not anymore."
"I'll get you another one….and heels."
"You're bad, mister." She's biting on her lip, releasing a nervous, shaky laughter, thighs squeezed firmly.
"I've learned from the best."
She laughs, again. With him, it comes naturally. And sometimes, it scares her that someone could know her that well.
But he does, and she usually runs.
But now, now it all changes.