A football game night

A rare occasion for the night. Wife is watching a ball game that I am not watching.

It is a lousy game. Home team is playing catching-up all night long.

Worse than the game is she is out, on a not-a-date date.

She lets her not-a-lover-anymore friend take her out for dinner because she needs to eat.

A meal she washed down with just one sangria. 

A friendly meal lasted for only three hours.

Of course he means nothing to her now.

He is only a not-a-lover-anymore friend that pays for the meal.

And maybe to have a few hours of conversation with.

She takes a shower at ten o’clock. Not to call it a night and get ready for bed.

The shower is for a date with her not-a-lover-yet friend.

It is a lousy game I am watching. Destined to lose.

I sit in front of the TV, not intend to watch the game.

There is laundry need to fold so I might as well get started.

“What’s wrong?” Wife asks.

Pulling my head out of my hands, I say: “Oh, just a bit tired. Eleven o’clock now.”

The final quarter has just started. The score is still not looking good.

Well, says who the home team must win at the end of the game?

Says who I must have the satisfaction of smiling down the rivals at the end of the day?

She will let me know when the dating halts for tonight and she is ready for bed.

And she will let me tuck her in.

Not the not-a-lover-anymore friend, nor the not-a-lover-yet friend.

Not even the soon-to-be-ex lover!

That is good enough for me.

Sports commentators say there is no quality loss but I take it to another level.

I forfeit the night games, the sleep-over games, and the weekend games.

Well, just about all-except-Thursday games.

Surely there will be no play-off games for me, let alone the championship game. 

I am just in the not-so-serious practice squad.

It is good enough for me to be just in her league.

The Night I Am Not Camping

I wake up to the sound of heavy rain.

It is the camping night. Not mine, hers, with him.

Almost two o’clock now.

Retrieving my phone, I check the current weather up north.

It is clear, cool, and dry.

A perfect night, for making love in the tent, or under the starry sky.

Getting out of the bed. I go to the bathroom, shutting off the fan on my way.

“Is it raining?” Wife’s sleepy voice.

“Sounds like it.”

Would she look up and see Vega, Altair now?

Would she still remember Weaver-girl and Ox-boy?

His cock is a familiar one. He used to cum inside her as a routine!

Does not need much coaching, so she can relax and just enjoy!

Most likely she is not paying attention to the remote bodies.

She gives her lover one hundred percent.

Her passion is so intense it gets scary at times.

At least this boy is comforting her when the true love of her life is away, pampering another woman.

Lying still, I don’t want to wake wife up in the middle of the night.

There will be just another four hours before I can get up for a new day, anyway.

And lying still, my churning stomach does not make me throw up.

Wreckage

You didn’t see it coming. Not really your fault. The co-captain let it come too close when you were making the bread. And even then there was no warning, no notification, no tapping on the table to alert when the iceberg starts scraping the hull.

You madly try to turn the ship. Co-captain not concerned. You have been hit by other debris before, in this map-less, lighthouse-less sea. Every time the boat managed to escape serious damages, she keeps on sailing.

This time is different. The boat is listing. You run up and down the corridor, scramble between decks, shutting valves, closing hatches, securing valuables so they don’t fall into water. You just hope to avoid a total destruction.

Co-captain is not paying attention to the mayhem on board. The tropical paradise on the iceberg cajoles.

“No! There cannot be tropical paradises on icebergs. It is a mirage!”

No one hears your screams.

Exhausted, you know the boat cannot be saved by you alone. Looking around, you try to figure out what vital parts need to be preserved so the boat may be rebuilt after this. But even that is not a one-person job, cannot be and should not be. The boat and the sailing are the results of hard work and even tougher love over years. Now you cannot even salvage.

Time to launch the life vessel when the mother boat is still above water. This paradise does not welcome you. but there are other, genuine tropical paradises that you know how to reach.

Moths

Nothing short of spectacular, viewed from afar, the flames are love-creating and life-devouring, simultaneously. It is quite amusing to watch the moths twirling around the flames. Some dive in on a straight line, disappear with barely audible “puffs” at contact.

Some take a careful approach, keeping enough separation to be safe. Many realize the danger and flee when they still have control over the flight path.

But even more are locked in topsy-turvy spirals, smart enough to skim the warmth but not strong enough to turn around. quite a few end up crawling, after their wings dried up and burned, some towards, some away from. I wonder how they are feeling as they realize they will never feel the enjoyment of flight at this intensity.

Circling the margin of the maddening scene, close enough not only to feel the intense heat, but also to smell the pungent odor given off by the consumed moths. At least some of them thought they were the special one, I am certain. Would I be the real special one?

The flames promise to embrace, but not to engulf me.

I want to believe such magic is possible. At the same time am convinced there is a soft spot within the flames that only the special one can occupy. That possibility doubtlessly is as high as a moth safely embraced by flames.

Warmth intensifies as the flames draw me in. Occasional “puffs” become crispy “pops”. I look up. The psychological escape window is still there, But I know the flames can close it faster than a blink of my eyes.

“You are safe and secure…” The flames beacon: “I’ve got you!”

The sensation from my wingtips is new but I know what it is. The flames lure me to go lower:

“We both know what we need.”

I no longer keep an eye on the escape window. It is delusional to begin with.

The flames comfort me:

“I will not engulf you.”

Thus I descend.

To Her Face

We stroll along the shore. Not close to the water to get our feet wet. Just want to get one last peek of the bay before we pack up and drive home. We watch the lone swimmer bobbles in the wakes of passing boats. This overcasting sky has sent visitors to elsewhere. And this stretch of beach will soon be empty. It is another kind of tranquility, though.

“Shall we?” I whisper.

My wife nods. She turns towards the trail.

When she walks past me. I grab her and give her a bear-hug, planting a kiss on her cheek. I pull my head away to look at her. Bewilderment morphs into bemusement.

“What was THAT all about?”

Her gaze shifts away. I can see her blushing. I also know exactly what is she thinking about. She is trying to recall the last time I showed her such spontaneous PDA. And I bet she couldn’t remember. Because I surely can’t.

“That was for my lovely wife!”

She slips away from my embrace. Flustered but with happy bounces in her steps.

“I don’t know what has got into you.”

I watch her stepping onto the trail. My jaws are tight so I won’t make actual sound.

“Sorry, my love. I have a concubine. And THAT is what got into me.”