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Old 09-17-2011, 01:11 AM
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Devon (Offline)
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Default Having the Balls to Say No - Grace Gabriel

Having The Balls To Say No

I woke to the sound of the kitchen door bursting its catch with the weight of his hefty shoulder. My bedside clock glared 3.45am in pulsing, neurotic red neon. The glowering red digits looked as inflamed as I felt. What the hell was he playing at?

So I lay there. Stiff as a corpse. Alert as a hare. I heard the goose honk of a chair leg scraping on tiles. (He'd probably blundered into it.) A groan. The rubber plunk of a shoe dropping to the floor. Silence. Was he looking for another drink? Would he come looking for me?

I willed him to stay downstairs. I was happy to find him in the morning, blissfully unconscious on the sofa. Usually submersed in scatter cushions and swathes of yesterday's newspaper. I'd fling the windows wide to rid the room of the frowst and fug of him. A night's worth of rank breath and rancid backside emisions. The musk of his solitary exploits. Sometimes I'll pause to admire the still handsome profile - a glistening suspension bridge of drool stringing his slack jowls to the arm of the sofa.

Yes, of course I still love him. But the truth is, in recent years, we don't share a bed anymore. The ageing process has made me more selfish - less tolerant. My room is my last bastion of femininity. I have snowdrift white bedlinen, sunshine dried, lavender scented, and meticulously pressed to a millpond calm. Every inch teased and smoothed to perfection, so it sits like the icing on a wedding cake. A jug of roses on the bedside table. Beautiful old English roses that loll, heavy headed and drowsy from their own soporific scent. He doesn't belong here now. This space has become mine and mine alone. So when I hear his footsteps outside the door, I dread what I think he might be after.

So this was one of those nights. The wince and dry belches of an ancient staircase announced his ascent and tracked his progress. Quick and purposeful. So I rolled on my side and feigned sleep. Sometimes he'll try and bully me. Sometimes he'll just flake out. I felt the bed depress, and my covers were drawn down into the whirlpool of his clumsy embarkation. The sheet was pulled tight and taut across the tops of my thighs, and firmly secured under his paperweight bulk. My body felt like an offered cigarette, slightly plucked from the pack.

He lay quiet for a few minutes. Then the bed started a rythmic rock. His breath was hot and heavy on the back of my neck. Heard him lick his lips. Thump thump thump. Then I felt it. He laid it on my exposed hip bone. Damp and flaccid.

I reared up and snapped the light on. "Out you filthy animal!" I bellowed, removing the peeled rind of chewed tennis ball from my body. Soaked in drool. Steaming from the heat of his mouth. I launched the thing into my bedside locker in disgust. It landed in poll position on a wicker basket full of the same, in various states of decomposition. Now he was buggered. The last one confiscated. "Bed Buster!" I commanded, in a stentorian voice. He bounded off the bed, almost capsizing me. He stood there, backside shimmying to some internal salsa beat. Tail wagging furiously like a wiper blade in monsoon. "I'll play ball with you tomorrow", I told him gently, softened by those brown Labrador eyes, full of devotion. He gave my hand a forgiving lick, then snatched up one of my best shoes and bolted for the door. As he beat his hasty retreat, he let out a plaintive fart with the whinge of a dying firework.

Twenty-year-old Marisa discovers her life is all a lie:
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