Only Imagined

The lights are low, there’s a soft glow from two candles, and from the lights outside the window. Beyond that there’s nothing but the darkness, and a thread of music - something I can’t identify. And him, moving from one room to another. The dim lights caress an athletic body, they catch in deep brown eyes. His smile is just for me as he….

“Lydia.”

I hate the way just about anything can startle me into jumping sky high. And I hate the way my face can’t hide a damn thing, there’s a desperate fire-red blush that rushes up into my cheeks, that screams: GUILTY-GUILTY-GUILTY to anyone who gets a look at it.

“Hey, Lydia.”

“What’s up?”

“The salad.”

“Oh. Crap. Sorry.”

I just love Sindy, she’s my best friend, and she has been since high school. The things we used to get up to together! I remember when she first told me she was into Darren: I was, of course, like: “who’s Darren?”

“That guy I told you about from Greek Philosophy.”

“Ugh! He takes Greek Philosophy.”

“Hey, so do I.”

“For a filler paper. He does take it as a filler paper?”

She had the same laugh then, a full symphony orchestra. “Oh, probably. But I’m more interested in how seriously hot he is.”

Problem: she was right. I saw Darren when she brought him along for drinks. And Oh. My. God. she wasn’t kidding. That thrill of attraction that hit me when he walked in the door. I looked at him all night, I was mesmerised by his laugh. And I thought, I imagined, I dreamed that at unguarded moments he was looking right back at me.

I’m not that kind of friend; but still I imagined myself jumping on top of him in the coat check room, legs wrapped around his waist, chewing his face off, panting, shivering…

And here I go again.

Enough, enough, enough. A good friend doesn’t go fantasising about her best friend’s husband with his kit off, or about all the things she’d like to do to him once she has him unclothed. And I am a good friend. I was there in a pink bridesmaid’s dress, right there at her side, unable to keep my eyes off her fiancé-then-husband, but never saying a word.

“There’s knives in the drawer.”

Oh. Right. Salad.

I start slicing and dicing. It takes my mind off how unbelievable Darren’s looking right now in that navy blue t-shirt. The last ten years haven’t taken the edge of his body, he obviously works out, and you can see the contours against that t-shirt…

“You think the weather’ll hold?”

I say, “sure, the forecast’s good.”

“We need this shit. We haven’t had a sit-down, pig-out get-drunk barbecue in ages. I just want to lounge around next to the pool and look at the sky and forget everything. Is that too much to ask of a weekend?”

“Sounds sweet to me.”

“Where’s Chuck at?”

“Sent him for drinks and ice-cream.”

“Nice. Do you think he got lost?”

“Oh Chuck, he can’t get anything done in hurry.”

“That’s more than I need to know about your sex life.”

You don’t. You don’t know anything about that.

Chuck. Charlie. Hubby. He’s the sweetest thing. I love him. But he hasn’t a clue. He doesn’t know what was going on in my head on our wedding night, and I hope he never does. He’s never been anything but good to me, and made me laugh, and made me cry at the right times. He’s my rock.

His footsteps come walking up the path, and then he’s standing there with shopping bags in hand.

“Over there on the table,” says Lydia.

“Sure thing,” and then he comes over to wrap his arms around my waist and kiss me on the back of the neck, and I snuggle into it, ignoring Lydia’s rolled eyes. His warmth feels good against me.

But not as good as a couple of minutes later, when Darren comes over and takes the salad bowl from me and for just a moment our fingers touch. And that, that is like being hit by lightning, the jolt is all physical and tingly, it makes me fizz from the inside out; somehow I can manage to do nothing but a brief smile.

...But later, when the sun’s setting and I’m sitting with my feet dangling in the pool, he’s there; he slips his shirt off and comes to sit beside me. His presence there is huge and dizzying. I feel as if I’m falling when he reaches and touches my cheek, when he lifts my face to his so he can place a soft kiss on my lower lip.

“I’ve been thinking about that almost forever.”

My hands rush over his chest – all muscle, smooth, strong. “What else have you been thinking about?”

“Let me show you.”

And…

I smile to myself as he turns a few sausages. Maybe his hand will touch mine for just a moment when he puts one on a slice of bread for me.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

I just can’t help myself.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work