( You can read more about the behind the scenes of this story here.)

Maybe the world wasn't earth shatteringly different.

Slightly different.

He walked in like he had walked in a million times before. Those days would greet him at the door like an over anxious cocker spaniel, bounding to meet him, pouncing in a non-rhythmic fashion. And just when he thought it was under control, another round of K-9 pounces. And then his memory annoyed him, it peed on his feet just like that annoying dog.

He remembered a time when coming home and seeing her cooking made him happy. The trappings of the relationship were there. He would head up the hall and veer to the kitchen. Her bare legs were exposed. She wore white athletic anklets to keep her feet warm and his blue dress shirt to get him warming up. Her dark hair rested on the collar, one knee bent and leaning against the counter. She stirred more than what was for dinner. His heart beat faster; his breathing intensified.

She would look back at him with the shirt half buttoned and the wooden spoon slightly separating her straight, smart teeth. Then she did the unthinkable.

Slowly she licked whatever she had been stirring off the spoon; slowly, inserting the spoon into her mouth, curved side down, puckering and pulling the spoon out of her mouth and gracefully swallowing. The red tips of her fingernails tugged at the spoon then rested it on the counter to hold up her hand much like a Rockette uses a cane.

"Hi stranger," and then a brief pause, "I've been cookin'."

He could only stand in amazement wondering if he could keep from orgasaming in that moment. There was no question what both of them wanted right then, right there, in that moment.

But moments like that don't make relationships.

And there is no man more lonely than the one who has the fantasy, but not the love.

Because they were both guilty of “love”. The “love” that humps a total stranger consensually. The kind of “love” that looks for a phone call every 3 days for a booty call. The kind of “love” that calls when they are lonely ... and bored ... and horny.

They had "loved" each other for what seemed like forever, but still there is no man lonelier than the man who does not captivate his best female friend. He lives, as he did, in a world of sex, but emotionally devoid of love. Consensual acts, but no parity.

And she was no better; she saw the look on his face, deep and hollow from the years of trying to unsuccessfully deceive himself. And she saw it too. This was a man who "loved" her. And, oh yes, he could "love" her. He “loved” her in the kitchen, in the shower, on the washing machine, in the car, in the Jacuzzi and, now and then he "loved" her in bed.

She allured him with her ways. Men were easy for her. She knew "love" got her places in his life. Places she needed. "Love" got her away from bad friends, troubled families and fiction stranger than reality.

Yes, they used each other to medicate the small existence they perpetuated. And nothing was better than make-up "love". As rough as the words they used to wound each other. It placed band-aids on self-inflicted wounds. The "love" that should have healed them only opened up a desperate addiction for more, only these two, despite their intelligence, weren't bright enough to see the addiction. And they kept killing each other with “love”.

Sometimes when things weren't particularly kosher, she would start a small fight just so the "love" could ease the pain.

And he knew she did it. He saw the look in her eyes. He was no genius, but he reasoned it for himself that her attacks, retreats and apologies eventually lead to their rendezvous in the bedroom or the washer or the shower or where ever else "love" took them.

But as he opened the door this time he wondered if he could ever leave the emotional trauma unit of the existence they had created.

He decided.

What he decided didn't make sense. Even though he knew it was better to move on, he didn't. He didn't want out any more. He wanted in. He wanted into something bigger than he could create. Not just "love" but LOVE.

He wanted out of the ICU, but the decision he made took her with him. Why not? She had put him there and had been there herself. It would be a lonely life for both of them alone. He was a man and was going to do what, supposedly, all men do and evacuate the situation and make it right.

He walked in and decided. Committed, not involved, but fully committed.

Her eyes leveled on him - fully leveled. Like a storm on the horizon. He couldn't tell if she was acting or serious, but either way he had to get them out. The walking wounded would have to walk out and it would take a man to do it. And, at this point, it was a wounded man.

"I'm going to fuck you for the last time tonight."

The tone in his voice let her know this was not a goodbye speech. He wasn’t leaving. The "fucking" would stop, tonight.

And then something changed in her. It was like a voice said something. It sounded like the little girl she was years ago, falling for Joel Hobbs or Eric Boyt in high school. It was a small but strong voice.

"I would like that."

The stew could wait; they couldn't. They couldn't wait to leave, but they had to get enough "morphine love" to make to the next step. She was lost how this was going to happen. He was not.

A tear fell down her cheek and in all the years of the anger he did something he had never done - he kissed it and asked why she was upset.

"I'm not upset, I'm happy. Happy you are here."

There were no "I'm sorries" or, "I won't do it again" or, "Ok, I'll stop."

There were genuine looks of surprise and understanding. Looks that said, "This will not be easy, but it makes sense."

And he believed that this was what was supposed to happen.

She looked down and felt the release of the pain and struggle. A deep sense of peace and trust went through her.

"Take me to bed," were her words. She was no where near ready for LOVE, but figured they had to start somewhere familiar and this was the place they had visited on many occasions. But not like this time.

Instead of lunging at her for a kiss and grabbing her face; his thumb stroked her index and lead her down the hall.

Clothes were not flying off exposing breasts. Cocks were not being sucked and stroked. But in the recesses of their minds, the mechanics of how their bodies worked was less important than how their hearts were healing.

A turn away from the bedroom, she hopped on his back and placed her arm around his neck and whispered in his ear, "Love me," and he felt the warm drop of a tear on his neck. He turned away from the bed and dropped her on the sheets that had contained the bloodletting from the prior years.

She fell on the bed arms listless. The light from the bathroom was on and cast the light on her dark hair. She lay with her left hand on the top of her zipper. Her right arm straight and her left leg cocked and bent up to the side. Police tape couldn't have covered her better. The corpse of who they were was loaded into the hearse bound for the morgue.

He turned and gently kissed her. It breathed life into her soul. She felt her chest rise and fall pumping her heart into life. She pulled her shirt off her torso and exposed the everyday plain bra over her tits.

Every day was the way she wanted it. She could care less how exposed she was now, although, she did feel exposed in front of the man whom she had "loved" for so long. She reasoned she only feared what she had not known, and LOVE was as foreign as this moment.

His kisses warmed her skin from her belly button to her neck. She pulled him closer with her legs and pulled his shirt off his back. His chest felt more like a man who was strong. He rested against her now spread legs. She felt him harden. She pulled him close and he fell on top of her and she smiled.

He laughed and they lay there for a while interrupting the rhythm and cycle that had started. In fact, it was different. They had all the time in the world. A dying man would worry about how quickly he could get it over with before he died a little more. He only wondered if he could hold out as long as she needed.

He unsnapped her bra and it fell to the side as she pulled his face closer and kissed him with a smile. They felt the warm skin between them, and the rough snaps and buttons of other clothes. He lingered on her neck kissing, and, for the first time in years, he gave her goose bumps. They knew, the way people know, these were not from cold, but from the roller coaster ride of anticipation.

"It was funny," she thought, "Everything in this room is the same, except us. The nightstands, the remotes, even the unmade bed, but it's like I'm here with someone else, someone safe.”

He didn't think; he concentrated. Before he would have thought of the 7 steps he needed to get in her pants and erupt inside. This time he concentrated on her. It was almost numbing, "Am I spending too much time here, too little, is that too hard, too soft. Crap, what if I have to fart?" He knew his success when she took in deep breaths and slowly exhaled, and that was almost everything he did.

Soon they were equally rolling and touching, sometimes on top, sometimes beside each other. She was wet and he was hard, but there was not an ounce of sex between them yet. Finally, they fell off the bed.

A brief "Aaaaaaah" and they tumbled; they smiled, and then made love.

She had landed on top of him, her hair disheveled around her face, she drew back the errant blinding lock behind her ear, placed her hands on his chest eased back over his cock. She slid herself in, eyes closing and opening slowly. It wasn't tough and she was very ready to take him in. That first time in she felt him hard and warm. She counted his heart beats and waited until he hit 7 before she rose and felt in 2 beats then waited 7 again and repeated until the tingling in her pussy grew.

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Mmmm
And up
1
2


He felt the smooth slick skin in her pussy and her hands grip his face. She leaned closer and he kissed her. The hair ran wild again and tickled his face teasing his chin and cheek, a little like a child running around an adult and giggling.

She rocked forward with her hips and breathed in and felt every inch slide in and out. She licked her lips and moved rhythmically more quickly. He could feel how wet she was as it ran down his sack.

His hands followed the curves of her sides and rested on her chest. He squeezed and ran his thumbs over her nipples. A tear fell again and she smiled as if to say, "I can't help it," and continued to go faster. She nearly lost her balance when the first strong orgasm rolled in. She didn't want more “love” she wanted more LOVE and went faster. And it dawned on her that she wasn’t' thinking about herself anymore, but about him. The faster she went the more likely he would be to cum and maybe she could hold off enough for them to come together.

His hands moved to her hips and she felt how strong they were. He helped her moved and she panted air like small sips from a fountain cool. His face contorted and she let go and as he exhaled she closed her eyes and felt both of them come.

When they woke up she was covered with a blanket beside him in bed, with a bottle of water beside her and a bowl of warm stew.

He had loved her - truly loved her. And she had accepted that love and returned in kind.

There was work to be done. They had bandaged their wounds, but would have to help each other though the uphill climb of healing. Not too fast, not too slow. A little less microwave a little less crock pot. But the stew would give them strength.