Disclaimer: In Chapter 1.
Notes: To southinkimspooky, Aislinne, Meakashi Gosterful, & the others who reviewed and requested a second part. I'll have you know, there wasn't going to be one until you asked, so...thanks for asking. Hope this answers your questions.
I don't know how I became that woman. The kind I have always inwardly sneered at on the job. Now I understand their tears in a way I never thought I would. I have become the other woman. It's a position I've never held, until her. But she was there and she was warm and willing. And though there was once someone else, she has since faded into the system.
Her body is warm against my chilled frame, her skin seeming to hold the heat of the tropics (an image conjured just by looking at her regal form, the echo of a hundred Egyptian queens alive in present-day Manhattan). She is always warm when she pushes me against the wall in our frantic connection. We are not about love, or even lust.
It began as comfort. A horrific case, a child raped and tortured for a sadist's pleasure. She found drugs in the baby's system (they are all babies these days, even when they're not), keeping her from crying as she was roasted alive over a fire. With what was left after the fire, it was difficult to tell what other damage had been inflicted, but M.E. Warner is the best. I saw my pain mirrored in her face when we told her we had to let the sick son-of-a-bitch go due to lack of evidence. She was waiting for me after shift ended that night. No longer was she the strong medical examiner, she was Melinda Warner, who wanted to find comfort in my body.
That's how it began. I know why it continues, or at least I think I do. I understand what her husband cannot. Nothing in his life has made him capable of understanding the horrors we face every day. He's a wonderful, sympathetic man, obviously devoted to her. They make a wonderful couple. So why am I still here?
I reach over and pull her closer. It's a rare night we spend together, on the occasions when her husband has to travel. We are using each other. She wants empathy. I want to feel again. I have been so lost, so cold since Alex left.
I can rationalize all I want; my heart knows that this is wrong. But cliché as it may seem, it does take two to tango. She hasn't left and I haven't got the strength to push her away. She may love her husband, but tonight...she is in bed with me.
Notes: To southinkimspooky, Aislinne, Meakashi Gosterful, & the others who reviewed and requested a second part. I'll have you know, there wasn't going to be one until you asked, so...thanks for asking. Hope this answers your questions.
I don't know how I became that woman. The kind I have always inwardly sneered at on the job. Now I understand their tears in a way I never thought I would. I have become the other woman. It's a position I've never held, until her. But she was there and she was warm and willing. And though there was once someone else, she has since faded into the system.
Her body is warm against my chilled frame, her skin seeming to hold the heat of the tropics (an image conjured just by looking at her regal form, the echo of a hundred Egyptian queens alive in present-day Manhattan). She is always warm when she pushes me against the wall in our frantic connection. We are not about love, or even lust.
It began as comfort. A horrific case, a child raped and tortured for a sadist's pleasure. She found drugs in the baby's system (they are all babies these days, even when they're not), keeping her from crying as she was roasted alive over a fire. With what was left after the fire, it was difficult to tell what other damage had been inflicted, but M.E. Warner is the best. I saw my pain mirrored in her face when we told her we had to let the sick son-of-a-bitch go due to lack of evidence. She was waiting for me after shift ended that night. No longer was she the strong medical examiner, she was Melinda Warner, who wanted to find comfort in my body.
That's how it began. I know why it continues, or at least I think I do. I understand what her husband cannot. Nothing in his life has made him capable of understanding the horrors we face every day. He's a wonderful, sympathetic man, obviously devoted to her. They make a wonderful couple. So why am I still here?
I reach over and pull her closer. It's a rare night we spend together, on the occasions when her husband has to travel. We are using each other. She wants empathy. I want to feel again. I have been so lost, so cold since Alex left.
I can rationalize all I want; my heart knows that this is wrong. But cliché as it may seem, it does take two to tango. She hasn't left and I haven't got the strength to push her away. She may love her husband, but tonight...she is in bed with me.
