Bedroom

I thought that--maybe. Maybe we should start imagining where they did it. I do not know, exactly. But it's somewhere in those wooden houses hidden behind dense canopies. In her parents bedroom to be precise. But maybe not. They were too clever for that. Her bedroom would have been more appropriate--unless they could not extinguish the heat for a minute and hence, they chose to lie there on the sofa. The rattan sofa where her mother used to sit and cradle her younger siblings in her arms. If they sat there, their neighbors would likely know. So maybe not in the sofa. The creaking would have resonated and everyone in the neighborhood would know. In her bedroom. I am certain now.

He untied the blue curtain and squatted beside her. They were exchanging glances at first. "Do you love me?" was all he read in her eyes. He said, "yes" and inched closer to bring her mouth closer to his. Their lips locked like doors opening from time to time to draw in air. He pinned his fingers around her waist. She hooked her arms around his neck. They were lying quietly at first. And when she felt him too heavy for her, she said, "maybe we should not do it, Dan."

"Maybe we should not..." But it was too late to say that. His hands raised to her chest; he brought his tongue beside his fingers. "I cannot stop it," he said. So she couldn't. She let him. She let him, hoping she would discover what was it that made happy married women, happy. But when he thrusted and forced his stick to her parted legs, she screamed. She almost wanted to cry. He did it innumerable times; and she let him--this time with a different goal. To make him happy. Maybe someday she would discover what was it that made happy married women, happy.

---to be continued---