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Message-ID: <30624asstr$991739403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: drspin@newsguy.com (DrSpin)
Reply-To: drspin@newsguy.com
Subject: {ASSM} <Dulcinea> R is for Reprise (MF) by DrSpin
Date: Tue,  5 Jun 2001 07:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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R is for Reprise (MF)
(A Dulcinea Memorial Festival Story)
by DrSpin
May 2001

-------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from 
readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write 
to: drspin@newsguy.com

* Ruthie edited expertly.

* I write and you read, if you care to. That's all 
there is to it. If any reader is offended, he/she 
should not have been here in the first place. 
-------------------------------------------------------

She called out his name, involuntarily, and he turned 
and stared. She saw it come to him and she smiled, 
involuntarily. They took possession of an island in the 
centre of the pavement, and people flowed around them. 
"You've become a redhead," he said, his eyes roaming 
over her face.

She detected the hint of accusation. She'd changed the 
colour of her hair without getting his approval. The 
divorce was ten years ago, but some things between them 
had not changed.

She pushed away the urge to snap back, to bite down on 
the bitter taste of recriminations. "You have a touch 
of grey," she said. "I like it."

His blue eyes lost their wariness, and crinkled at the 
edges as he smiled. "It's great to see you." He stepped 
back for a theatrical view of her. "You look 
fantastic."

She blushed, absurdly pleased, and for a moment she 
thought her knees would buckle. Ridiculous, she chided 
herself. For God's sake, girl, get a grip on yourself. 

"You've time for coffee," he said, and he wasn't 
asking. He took her elbow in the way he always had and 
steered her decisively into a sidewalk cafe' just a few 
steps away.

She lived in this city now, remarried, and he knew 
that. He was visiting on business. He'd not married 
again, not changed his job, not even changed address. 
They chatted cautiously, catching up without putting 
foot into the demilitarized but still suspiciously 
guarded zone of past regrets. She remained vaguely 
flustered, tense, on edge.

"Red suits you," he said, breaking into a pause in the 
conversation. "I cannot believe how stunning you look."

She resisted an urge to fan herself with the menu. She 
was damp, humid. Damn the man, she acknowledged 
savagely to herself. She was actually wet.

He knew. She could tell it from his eyes. When you were 
married to a man for four years, you knew how to read 
his eyes. Even after a ten-year break, you didn't 
forget.

"I have a hotel room just one block away," he said. His 
voice had dropped down, low. It had always been a 
trigger for them both.

"I can't," she said, wildly excited.

He stood up, threw a banknote on the table, came around 
and held her chair insistently. She could think of a 
thousand reasons why she shouldn't, but she got up and 
he took her elbow again.

In the hotel room he sprawled on the bed indolently, 
fully dressed, and told her to take off her clothes. It 
was exactly what she wanted to do.

He entered her with an assurance that only comes 
between partners who've done it so often it was silly 
to put a number to it. She reached around and twiddled 
her fingers in that furry patch of hair he had in the 
small of his back. She hadn't seen it but she knew it 
was there; just went to it automatically, like she 
always had.

Fait accompli. She rode through the progressions to a 
wonderfully satisfying orgasm, the best she'd had in . 
. .

Hastily, she pushed the thought away and gripped him 
tightly as he shuddered against her.

Bastard. He was so good - good with her, but good with 
other women too, as she knew to her cost.

They lay side by side, reflecting on failed marriages 
without speaking. Soon she rolled out of the bed and 
began dressing.

"You're still the best," he said.

Maybe it was true, maybe not. Didn't matter any more. 
She'd remembered now why they weren't still together, 
and she didn't stop dressing to comment.

She left without saying a word, leaving him, once more, 
but this time without regret. Outside on the street the 
sun was shining on a cloudless mid-afternoon. She felt 
young, healthy, alive. She felt like she'd been fucked 
damn good, and that was a good feeling to have, however 
temporarily.

There remained only the matter of guilt. How did 
adultery with a former husband rate on the scale of one 
to ten?

As she walked up the pavement, smiling, it felt like a 
one. Later, she knew, it would fester to a 9.9.

She'd always be in love with him. He was several 
chapters in the story of her life. But now he had been 
concluded, and she knew she'd be better for it.

ENDS
-------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions 
from) comments and opinions from readers and is 
invariably motivated to respond. Write to: 
drspin@newsguy.com
-------------------------------------------------------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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