Loverman
Rebecca had felt he would come tonight, enter her locked home and appear at the doorway to her bedroom, speaking only with eyes that expressed the expanse of all time. He only came when she was alone, when, as a girl, her parents went on their weekend excursions to their small cabin in the mountains, or, as an adult, when her husband, Travis, was away on business.
Travis, the poor bastard, she thought to herself. He’d never known, never even suspected her infidelity. She felt guilty once, but now…now she had a lingering feeling that she would pay for her actions, that for her lust she was damned.
As she lay on her back, she glanced to her left, to the figure that lay facing the mirrored door of her closet, to the thick muscular shoulders that did not rise and fall with a pattern of breathing, to the jet-black hair that had not grayed a bit in the twenty-plus years that she had known him. Known may be the wrong word. Physically she knew him: knew the feel of his body against hers, the caress of his hands, the softness of his lips, the pain of the ecstasy she felt when he was inside her. She knew it too well, better than she knew her husband of seventeen years. But she knew nothing of who he truly was.