The obsessive fascination

I know what you're going to say, but trust me, I tried. And not just once. I timidly looked at myself several times in the mirror with a detached air, and I pronounced these three words which have the power of striking in the chest: "I leave you." I said them, I assure you. Quite loud even, in the hope that he hears them and accepts them. At 39, it might be about time. He cannot stay to contemplate this grumpy love that turns its back on him. Even an icy gust of wind doesn't dare to make me go towards it.

Have I given him too much? Am I this athlete who thinks he has no more strength at the end of the race? I had them, my quarter of hours of glory, my hours too, where I collected his sweat escaping from our desire combined in a double voice. But, precisely, I wonder: did I get too out of breath in this story? Have I lost my way? How can I find this breath of fresh air that once embraced me?

Stirring up the past is risky; I know that, but I need to understand. Where are our damp sheets, our sticky body, our throat that had only one desire: to jump on the first drop of water!

When he kisses me, I feel like I'm on a ship, but without the beautiful landscape rocked by daydreams. The urge to reject his face with a firm hand comes to me without being able to control myself. Why? And why must there be a why? Why justify this unbearable pleasure felt when your sweet tongue wandered between what I have most faithful, what keeps me company from morning to late at night? Why did I shout seven times without restraint? This breath that I thought buried or even lost in the middle of my existence has returned. It was sweet and strange at the same time. I do not know. I was like a tourist getting off the plane discovering new experiences for the first time.

Yesterday he got home from work early. He was well dressed, and immediately a dangerous thought crossed my mind. I wanted him to tell me something extraordinary, something insane. I believed it by clenching my fists in the hollow of my hips. His real estate agent costume gave him another form of refinement. I thought he was hiding a dark secret from me. I wanted to question him, shake his tie, tear it, yell at him, tell him to reveal to me what he was trying to hide from me. I came home. Believe me. I wish I had done more that night. The motivation was missing, like my questions. Usually, I'm the one questioning, cigarette in hand, spitting my smoke in the other's face and waiting for answers. I didn't have any questions, so I didn't get answers. No wonder.