We closed ourselves inside for days before her departure; just living off of each other and far away from the rest of the world. I had her all to myself. The taxi arrived ahead of schedule. It had to wait. I stood and watched as it left with her.
Coming away from the window, I sit down in one of the overstuffed arm chairs in the study.
Not the one in which she had me spreadeagled and helpless the day before. I cannot bring myself to sit in our bedroom either. I have to wonder… where will I find solace when darkness falls? I stare at the study walls and scrutinise the black and white photos adorning them. Photos of her alone, laughing back at me and then photos with the both of us; she is almost always in my arms; always smiling at me; always loving me. She looks at me from every wall of our study. I know her presence will be in every room, every corner of the apartment. Her gentle scent, the echoes of her laughter.
I cannot escape her… I cannot even begin to try.
At this point in time, these photos seem to be the only evidence of life in this cold and empty apartment. They will stay there, for my own private torment and pleasure until I hold her in my arms once again. I sit motionless for what seems like an eternity. Not knowing whether to be still or to occupy myself with lacklustre paperwork. Wanting to do *something*, *anything*.
She would almost be at the airport by now.
There is so much to do. I could do the washing. Change the sheets, perhaps. Clean the pile of dirty dishes that crowd the sink… This time, for once, we had eaten. Man cannot live on love alone.
I still remain immobile, while my already starving mind travels over words we dared say to each other, and scans wanton images.
The tastes and sounds and smells of her. The feel of her skin, so different to mine. The skin on her back, her face, her hard belly. My hands have a memory all of their own; the dry, rough skin of her feet as I massage them and then proceed to move her legs apart; the strength and stretch of her thighs; the slipping wetness that invites me, drowns my touch and draws me in.
I move into her a little at a time, torturing her with expectation. Her hands dig into my back, begging me to thrust in further. I wrap my arms around her and pound into her to the hilt, harder and harder as the beat becomes more rapid. My hard chest pushes against the swelling of her breasts and we bruise each other’s hips with desperation. The sweat of our stomachs mingles together and runs down our thighs until it is impossible to distinguish the different types of wetness. She screams my name… John! It is enough to make me want to cum.
Her ragged breathing still rings in my ears. I had pulled away, and she moaned as she clung to me. I followed the grace of her body pressed motionless against the mirror. Reaching behind her, I dipped my fingers in her strawberry lip balm and put it to my mouth. Tasted it. It was her turn. I slowly and deliberately smoothed the remaining balm over her dry, cracked lips; working it into the top lip, her full bottom lip. She had sucked at my fingers and bitten them as they slipped into her mouth. Straining against me, her hip bones pushed sharply into my belly, until I fell back onto her.
I can hear her. See her. Her face looks down at me. Her eyes are burning through me. She scolds me. “Don’t touch”. I wreath in frustration at the memory. My hands are begging. “No.” Her voice is merciless. “Do not touch.” My whitened knuckles clutch the cushion I hold.
Scrambling out of the chair, I rush to the desk to retrieve my calendar. Studying it carefully for the first time, I realise just how many days it is until I see her again. Twenty! I thought it was closer to two weeks. This is unbearably more like three! The calendar slips from my grasp and I fall back into the chair. It has begun to rain. The slow, random drops become a steady rhythmic drumming on the glass. I am lost in memory, lost in the rhythm of the rain. The rain acknowledges my discomfort.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach, at the memory of her mouth and tongue. It is hot and insistent. She teases me. Flickering and sliding over my hardened member. She demands all that I have to give. My skin remembers her every touch.
I must stop this. I must live my life. These 20 days must be manageable or I will go insane. I force myself up to begin my chores and decide it is best to go out for the evening. But as I pass the unmade bed, I see her again, face down among the pillows, my fingers thrust deep inside her. She is moaning my name. I rip apart the piled up covers to hunt for her smell. I pull and tear at the sheets, searching for a mark, a stain, a blonde hair, *any* trace of her. Throwing myself across the bed, I shut my eyes tight and will her to call me from every stop she makes.
End.
The Jarlena Journal 