I knew Michael must have been up with the kids because my phone said it was an hour until noon. I rolled over onto my back and stared at the eggplant colored ceiling. It was the first time in a long time I felt so at peace. I could vaguely recall finishing off two bottles of wine last night, sitting across the room watching Michael read through the details of his father’s will. After giving him the silent treatment for a better part of the evening, the red liquid had loosened my tongue and I spent at least an hour trying to get under his skin. When I finally broke the camel’s back, he pinned me to the bed and before I had the sense to object I was undoing his belt twice as fast as the work he was making on my bra. And after that I remember gasping for air as he came inside of me, me shattering around him, almost in unison. That’s what I hated most about us. Making love to Michael, grasping at his tanned skin and midnight hair broke me into a million pieces and built me right back up all at once.
