your teeth overbite the bottom ones, hiding them nearly entirely, but what gets me the most is the way your face lights up with the same rays as the sun, giving so much and asking for nothing in return.
“Do you want kids?” she asks me, throwing me out of the revelry of her. Her eyes are serious, but there’s also softness. As though she doesn’t want to push me even while wanting a response. We’ve been married a year and slowly getting to know each other. It’s weird. The hate we had for those short months before changed, morphing into something incredulous—something I couldn’t imagine experiencing with anyone else.
“I do,” I answer, unable to keep my grin at bay. Seeing little babies with my attributes has always been a craving of mine. When I was younger and Lo had Ace, my heart swelled so much. The love unfettered and unruly in its wake. I can only imagine what it’d feel like if the kid was my own.
Finally glancing at her, she has an unreadable expression, one that reminds me of grief. Not the kind like Lo experienced, where it overtook her entire mind, but a gentler, more subtle kind that has a meaning I’m not privy to. She licks her lips, distracting me from her change of mood at her own question. Did she want me to not want them? I’m nearing forty. That age in many people’s eyes is almost too old for children. To me, the craving won’t ebb until I’ve had my own. My desire to bring life into the world has never wavered.
“Oh.” It’s such a simple response as if it took her every ounce of energy to release that one syllable, and I want to know why. But again, she licks her lips, hiding whatever it is that’s bothering her.
“I’ve always wanted a child to hold, teach, and watch grow. Not that I’m saying I’d be a great father or anything,” I admit, shrugging shyly. Reaching behind my head, I rub my neck.
“You always do that when you’re embarrassed,” she muses with a flushed smile. Her cheeks are rosy like her hair, tinged with redness that shows how angelic she really is.
“I do, don’t I?” I don’t mention she told me that on many occasions, or that it’s something I’ve tried quitting for the simple fact that it reminds me of my past. I just enjoy the way her eyes zero in on me biting my inner lip.
She closes the short distance to me and presses a yellow-painted nail to my mouth, brushing the pad of her soft fingers across my sensitive flesh.
“Smile, old man. I want to feel it under my fingertips.”
Even with the desire not to give in to her for the old man comment, my lips break into a grin, making her eyes sparkle with joy. I’m finally getting used to her nickname for me. Albeit, it’s still sad. She’s nearly half my age, so the term is appropriate, but it’s still depressing nonetheless. Someone this young shouldn’t be with a man my age. It stunts her growth and life experiences. I’m already an adult and know what I want and need. She’s at the age where one day, she wants this, and the next, she wants someone like her loser ex-tool of a boyfriend. It’s how everyone is. Not me, I’ve always been driven to love—even if the love was unrequited most times, I still sought it.
She brings my thoughts back to her crinkled nose. The splashes of freckles dusting her cheeks and nose are more and more appealing with each glance. She’s enjoying this, teasing me. Her soft touch has me aching in other ways, ones I’ve kept at bay for weeks, unwilling to tarnish this new modesty we’ve grown with each other.
“Kiss me, old man. Show me how those lips feel.” I close my eyes at her words, knowing her kisses drive me to madness as keenly as her touch. Bowing my head, eyes still shut, I wait for her move. One thing I’ve learned about Joey is that she likes controlling the situation.
Her lips touch mine, tentative at first, then stronger, almost greedy with their pressure. She tastes like nature and lemons—like sweetness and joy—like mine, mine, mine. The tip of her tongue traces the crease of my lips, and a groan leaves me as I allow her everything she wants. Unlike the women from years ago, before I met Joey, she isn’t trying to be frenzied or