[RENA HANDS]

Synopsis: What did your lover bring home this Valentine's Day?

WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS A MILD SCENE OF ADULT CONTENT. ADULT SUPERVISION IS ADVISED.

*A NOTE: To all who read this story...this write was very, very impulsive. I welcome any and all suggestions/comments that would improve or correct this story. It was my intention to leave many, many unanswered questions. Can you guess why?

Valentine!

Valentine!

You bastard! How dare you come in…

She kicks him violently, landing him on the brick floor; he grabs his denim groin growling.

How could…

The freshly cut crimsons enwrapped by leathery emerald flutes shimmered as her forcible backhand pushed the bouquet off the marble counter. Her piercing eyes burned. But she didn’t burn him.

"Please," he begged.

She slammed his chest against the marble island; the champagne bottle thumped. “Please, I want…”

"You! You always want!" She heels his dropping jaw. She is thrashing her head, trying to forget this moment…

He had pulled into the driveway as she clipped her pearl earring; she lightly patted her lips before dashing to the door. Her golden curls wavered against ashen walls adorned by black and whites of their loving embraces, her breasts against his toned chest. His exposed groin concealed by her mechanical, stained hands. Her knee pressed to his lips as he lies on his back, reaching up to her licking lips. Their portraits were passionate. Their lovemaking was fierce. Aging scars healed; scars on their back verified it so.

She shivered, remembering their morning kiss, his tongue slithering into her puckering mouth. With eyes closed they searched each other out. A tickle of his tongue as he pecked her bottom doughnut powered lip. “Ah. Ah,” she giggles, pulling back. He grunts, grabbing her hair and cupping her breast. “I love you.” He walks off to work.

She dashes, returning to their bed; she shrouds herself in their smell. Old Navy. Her eyes roll she smiles, pressing the sheet against her exposed breast…

The phone rings. “Hello?”

“Yes, I am calling to confirm your reservation.”

“Oh, yes.” She pulls the blanket over her shoulder. There is a light growl. “Sorry.” She smiles uncontrollably. “Yes, eight o’clock.” The moist satin brushes her curls.

“Yes, ma'am, eight.”

The phone taps the night table; the cell phone rings. The landline drops and she’s upright text messaging her “man.”

HELLO.

SHOW ME YOUR TITS. She laughs, tapping her foot, crossing her legs like a ballet dancer.

SHOW ME YOUR TITS. She types back.

PLEASE! He responds.

She huffs on the cam, blurring his view; with her naked breast, she wipes away the sprayed dew.

I CANT PLAY. MY HUSBAND WAITS. The phone is closed, and she’s off to the shower - or maybe, for just a few more minutes, she would stay in bed, smelling his scent…

Now the only aroma rushing her flared nostrils is blood, splattered scarlet gushing from his slashed lip. He embraced her with roses and a white envelope. She kissed his flushed cheek.

“Let’s have a drink before dinner.” She walks off with the flowers and sealed epistle. It was doused in his scent. Old Navy. She rolled her eyes, kissing the paper. They walked into the kitchen. But something was different - he lagged behind her. Normally he would have cupped her breasts, rubbed himself against her ass followed her wherever she went.

She laughed as the champagne cork struck the ceiling; a rush of white bubbles dribbled down her hand and onto the envelope. Her mouth dropped. He grabbed for the bottle as she reached for the sachet. She licked the contents. “What is inside?”

She notices an unidentifiable sadness in his grey eyes. Never had she seen him so defeated. He was frowning. That was not there before. He reaches for her hand. “I want…” he stutters.

He grips her hand firmly. “I want a divorce.”

“What?” She punches him in the face. Her fist is shattered; the envelope lands upon the counter, sprayed by her blood. She pulls his auburn hair, slamming his head against the counter. “How can you do this?” She slams him to the floor; the brick dust puffs up, then down, showering him with light debris. “How can…”

Valentine!

It’s Valentine!

You bastard! How dare you come in…

She kicks him, throwing him back on the floor; he grabs his denim groin, growling.

“I am not happy.” He reaches out.

She hisses vehemently; white sprinkles hits his bruised face. “You’re not happy?” She bends down, grabbing his hair. “How can you not be happy?” She drops him, walking away, crossing her arms.

Rena Hands February 2008