When I had used every available envelope in my house to fill with the letters that I had written on Bull’s behalf, I began the tedious task of addressing each one by hand to a laundry-list of churches. In the end I counted ninety-seven envelopes destined for parsonages and congregations throughout southern Illinois and parts of Indiana. With a giant vase of loose change under my arm and the rubber-band bundled envelopes in my hand I followed my wife to her car in our driveway and we made the journey into Ft. Justice to purchase stamps and relinquish my efforts into the hands of an impatient and frumpy looking mail clerk.
My wife, who had offered to help me (which I had regrettably declined) with the folding of letters and their subsequent insertion into empty envelopes, simply accompanied me quietly on this journey. I was gradually becoming aware that she had been watching me at a distance for some time now, with the vacant curiosity of one cat watching another cat attempting to satisfy an impossible itch. There was nothing she could do to help me satisfy this suddenly passionate task that I had involved myself in. The nature of my motive was apparently confusing to her, and she meant to rectify that confusion on our way down the stairs in front of the post office.
“Can I ask what you hope to achieve by mailing that letter off to all those churches?” She asked quietly, while interlocking her slender, soft fingers within my own digits, which felt like they were covered in sandpaper to me at the moment.
“Well, I hope that the good Christian people whom I intend those letters to be read by will be compelled by their conscious decision to live a life according to the teachings of the divine Savior Jesus Christ to take pity on Bull Gunville. I hope that the words that I have taken such care to describe his unfortunate life so far will fall on sympathetic ears.” I found myself happy to be hopeful in this moment as I felt the last rays of the hot afternoon sun on my malnourished face and exposed arms.
“How do you think the sympathy of those people you have written to will help him?” She used her free hand to pull her long, beautiful hair away from her face while she turned to look up at me. The gesture struck me dumb with a surprising carnal desire that I couldn’t recall feeling the entire time I had been away from her. Using dope daily had effectively rendered my sexual drives into mute submission for a very long time. She dropped the captured hair over her far shoulder where it fell gently across her pale purple, button-down shirt. It was warm today, so she hadn’t felt the need to button the shirt completely. Lengths of her violet-tinted, auburn hair fell inside the purple fabric, where I saw the stray locks come to rest on the tanned, fleshy curve of her breast. I was suddenly aware that she had chosen not to wear a bra on our quest into town, and I was grinning at the thought with aching gratuity.
“Well? Answer me space cadet? How is this going to help him?”
I could hardly think about an answer to this question, as my attention was completely focused on catching a glimpse of what I had begun to imagine was a firm nipple being hidden by the whisps of glimmering hair inside of her shirt. I fumbled for my words like a lust-struck teenager.
“I hope that somebody takes pity on him and rattles the states attorney’s cage about her lack of desire to send him to rehab,” I stammered. I was still grinning wildly, now staring directly into my wife’s huge brown eyes. I stopped walking and examined the features of her face. I scanned her small, upturned nose and brilliant white teeth behind full, long lips. The sight of her mouth called into my currently overactive memory the illicit visions and ghost sensations of her tongue escaping from behind her teeth to offer its moist caress to the most intimate areas of my flesh I had reserved for her use alone over the course of our marriage. The aching in my inner thighs was fierce and warm as I greeted these memories. I resisted my instinctual urge to turn her around right there on the concrete steps in front of the post office, and lift her flowing black skirt above her hips where I could only hope I wouldn’t have to negotiate a bothersome piece of lacy, black fabric covering her perfectly round ass and neatly groomed pubic hair before I penetrated what I knew to be a delicately moistened crevice that I had been painfully neglectful of lately.
“Hey there, mister…” My brief fantasy was called to a halt by my wife’s soft, playful voice. “What’s on your mind?” It was a rhetorical question, as she obviously had witnessed the lust swirling around in my eyes as I was examining her mouth. “Wanna find someplace close to work this out, or can you make it back home without making a mess of yourself?” Her hand fell down between my legs and softly caressed my tightening pants.
“Someplace close, please…” I mumbled, feeling my face begin to radiate with the heat of an impending blush. We began walking towards her waiting car.
“I was starting to wonder if you were ever gonna fuck me again...” she stated as she let my hand go and stepped quickly to the driver’s side of the car. I opened the passenger door and slid hastily into the seat, slamming the door behind me. She turned the keys in the ignition and the car came to life.
While she was navigating the parking spot in reverse and maneuvering our position onto the street, I pulled the long, flowing skirt above her knees and ran my hand along her inner thigh. I was pleasantly surprised to find no troublesome fabric to keep my fingers from locating the sweet, moist nub of her clitoris. As my fingers negotiated the slender vertical lips hiding this hyper-sensitive bulb of skin, my wife stiffened momentarily before she released a stifled moan from behind the teeth she was using to bite down on her full bottom lip. She released one hand from the steering wheel, never glancing away from the road. With her free hand she pushed my fingers from where they had found sweet satisfaction further down and into the soft wet crevice. I slid a solitary finger into the inviting, tight, wet cavity at her hands request. I was quickly corrected by my wife’s instructive hand as she pushed two more fingers from my hand into her trembling vagina. She gently pushed and pulled on my wrist to establish a rhythm while she negotiated a sharp turn into the city park. Her hand slid away from mine to find her exposed clitoris, where she began to massage it gently while I fucked her obediently with the three fingers of my right hand. Moments later I felt the increasingly fluid response of her orgasm building as she pulled into the far side of the park behind a large dumpster, underneath the shade of an enormous oak tree. Before she could put the car in park her body stiffened and she finally closed her eyes and screamed joyfully as she found satisfaction and the release of the first orgasm I had provided for her in seven long months.
We made love three times that afternoon on top of her car, parked underneath the shade of the oak tree and behind the cover of the large city dumpster. When we had finally exhausted ourselves, she turned towards me while adjusting her tossed clothing and picking a bright green oak leaf from her hair.
“I’ve missed you…” she reached for my hands and placed them on her hips, wrapping her own arms around my neck and locking her fingers under my shoulder-length hair. “Any words I offer will never be able to satisfy the depth of that simple statement, so I’ll just leave it at that.” She was smiling carefully, and her eyes were glistening with the unyielding promise of tears that had become commonplace in our rare moments of intimate conversations since she had retrieved me from jail.
“I love you… and I missed you too… even if I didn’t recognize it while I was knee-deep in meth and dope-sick,” I offered softly, “I hope you want to believe that I realize it now. I want you to know how sorry I am that I let this go on as long as it has.” My spontaneous apology was instantly haunted by the words I had shared with Bull the previous day.
…If you say you’re sorry, then you intend to do that same shit again someday that you’re apologizing for…
But I felt sorry… and apologetic. I didn’t retract the apology I had offered to my wife, but I began to silently examine the wisdom of Bull’s theory on apologizing in my head. I truly loved my wife, but I began to doubt the sincerity of my apology, and along with it the validity of my concerns for the emotional roller-coaster my wife had endured as the result of my addictions. At that moment I began to feel like my ability to feel regret for anything other than Bull’s current position was next to impossible.
My wife didn’t notice my wandering thoughts, as she was apparently still floating on the cloud of endorphins we had created in this remote corner of the city park. She closed the distance between us and embraced my impoverished body and the baggy clothes hanging from it.
“I love you too,” as she spoke, I felt her lips moving on the flesh of the arm I was using to return her embrace, “and it makes me happy to hear you say those things. I prayed really hard that I would have a moment like this with you again… even if it was only one more time. I forgave you a long time ago when I realized just how hopelessly tangled-up you were with meth. Don’t apologize anymore… okay?”
“Thank you…” I whispered into the sweet smell of her hair.
She groaned playfully and pulled away from me. She began to spin happily in several circles as she wandered towards the driver’s side of her waiting vehicle. “Are you gonna tell me that meth feels better than what we just did?”
“No… meth cannot make you feel like that,” I replied walking to my side of the car, although I was thinking to myself…
But it does make you forget that feeling that good is possible.
This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo.