Disclaimer: I make absolutely no claim to Desperate Housewives.
It's Just a Cheesy Love Song
A story by Ryeloza
In the dark she can pretend the ceiling isn't there and their bedroom looks out into infinite space. How many stars exist in her imagination? It's a sky dusted with light that is just a little more pure, a little brighter, a little more beautiful. A dream, a dream…it's just a dream.
Lips press against her shoulder; a kiss so feather-light she might have believed she imagined it too except for the goose bumps that rise on her skin. His breath is warm and moist. "What are you thinking?" he murmurs.
Her mind speaks poetry that doesn't translate to her words even though whatever she says will immediately be swallowed by the safe, dark night. "Are we boring?"
"Boring?" His fingertips dance across her ribs and she knows that all he wants to do is love her. But not yet. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know."
"Boring to whom? Because I'm not bored with you." There is a thread of worry in his voice and she tries to sooth him by running her hand over the back of his head. She looks at him now—not to come back to reality but to pull him away with her into a world far beyond the mundane. She can't go to the stars without him.
"We're really…normal."
He doesn't laugh. She loves him a little bit more for that. "Is there something wrong with being normal?"
"It's not very romantic."
"Says who?"
"The world. I think it's a law. Normal is not romantic." She trails her finger down his forehead all the way to his lips and he kisses the tip.
"We've been married thirteen years and I'm still completely in love with you. Isn't that the kind of romance most people aspire to?"
She smiles because she loves him too and he's right and he's wrong and he's so far from perfect that he somehow is perfect even though that makes no sense. "You and me against the world. Forces drive you apart just to bring you back together. Love overcoming obstacles."
"Oh, that definition of romance. It sounds like an epic poem. I think we're more like a cheesy love song."
"A cheesy love song?"
"Yeah. One of those ones they play at weddings and you see that little old couple that's been together for a hundred years and they're still dancing like they're newlyweds. That's us."
"We're a hundred year old couple?"
"You know what I mean."
She sighs and looks back to the ceiling while he peppers her neck and chest with soft kisses. "We're not boring," he says to her breasts. "We're…us."
"Us," she repeats, shutting her eyes. She's flying away on the sensation of his touch—breath, lips, teeth and tongue against her; hands gently stroking her far, far away from boring, rational thoughts. "Us…"
"We're the only two people in the world."
It's true.
"Love you," he whispers. He gathers her shirt and pulls it off and her nipples harden in the cool night air. Then his mouth is there—so warm and persistent. She squirms beneath him. "Love your skin…your breasts…your lips…" He kisses her and she can feel his words in the firm stroke of his tongue: love you, love you, love you…
What are those love songs about anyway? Together forever and faithfulness and forgiveness and beauty and kisses and always…always…
"Would you follow me…?" She starts but can't finish the thought because his hand has drifted lower and is caressing her and it's hard to be coherent about impossible dreams when he's pushing her toward oblivion.
"Anywhere."
That sounds like a cheesy love song too. But he means it and maybe that's not such a bad thing. If she floats away into the night…
"I love you." She isn't sure she actually says the words and she repeats them again and again to make sure he hears her. "I love you."
"Always." He breathes the word against her skin and she nods. Yes. Always. Always.
Together they drift to the stars.