The Opportunist

He was her first after a tumultuous marriage where touch had been rare and the newness of feeling desired, now, was welcome.

She bathed in the depths of his eyes, locked with hers as they melded together, as if they had always been one.

He called her “amazing”.

She felt hope that maybe there was life after marital death; hope that she could be seen, that someone would endure for her as she had endured for others.

Her naivete had persisted through years of heartache, decades of loss and unsought metamorphosis. She still believed in love. With him, she truly fell “at first sight”, but eventually, he went away too.

She should’ve been used to it, and maybe she was. A safe place was all she’d ever wanted, where she would be welcomed, nurtured as she was.

He returned many times, after long absences during which his silence threatened to consume her. She felt like a dog dutifully waiting for her owner.

She always waited for him.

When he did return, he brought all the same hope and the same crippling anxiety with him. She believed he would really see her now in all her damaged glory, and so she hoped… and again invited him in.

Emily C. Poésie © 2019

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