Discretion

I look at you- unsubtly, lips suggestively pursed. Pouted over a
glass, and I sip. A glass of juice that tastes of you. I can still feel
you on my tongue. I can remember what it was like to press my body up
against you, to force you up to the wall, to demonstrate my urgency for
you.

Not so long ago.

Not so long ago you were naked, I was naked. Wrapped around each other
tightly, locked and knotted and inseparable like a small child's
laces.

I cross my legs, stop looking at you. Nobody has actually noticed yet,
although I have been staring at you forever. Fawning, pathetic.
Obsessed, like a fat pre-teen over an unobtainable popstar. Except I
can have you. Not quite any time I like, but still....
You're mine.

You smell good- your scent's on my fingers, the palms of my hands, the
back of my neck where you nuzzled and grazed like a foal.
Surreptitiously, I touch the places where your smell lingers. There are
other places where your aroma clings, which I can't touch here. Not in
company. The thought makes me smile.

She re-enters the room. Sits next to me. Sees me smiling, and smiles
back, thinking me friendly. 'He's fallen back to sleep,' she declares,
voice all soft-maternal. We make appreciative cooing noises. A chorus
of the broody and the bored. I refill her glass from the half-gone
bottle of Austrian plonk on the table, while she fixes a ring that's
gone askew on her finger.

Your wife and your son- testament to your virility, having a boy first.
As if I didn't know you were oh-so potent. I think I've had three of
your abortions, so far, not including 'natural' ones.

Your wife's face is smug, satisfied as she drinks her wine. So pleased
that she's your wife. That she has you. Which she doesn't. I have you.
She just plays at motherhood and wifery, which is what you'd expect
from a thin-lipped vicar's daughter.
Not a threat. Not a rival. A cipher, if anything at all. A leech, a
pathetic barnacle to whom you have obligations. Which worries me
not.

She may tie you down, but she never ties you up.