Monotony

I rolled over in bed and pretended to be asleep as I heard him come in the front door. It shut with a heavy bang, which told me that he was drunk. I peered at the clock on the bedside table, the numbers flashing four a.m. I winced as I heard him stumbling up the stairs, crashing down the hall towards the bedroom. The door squeaked on it's hinges as he opened it and I braced myself. He tried unsuccessfully to be quiet as he entered the room and banged his shin on the bookcase. He swore under his breath. I was careful to control my breathing; a steady husk telling his alcohol soaked brain that I was asleep. He sat down heavily on the bed and sighed. Five minutes later he was still there sighing every few seconds. I considered getting up and helping him out of his clothes to get into bed, but made no effort to move. I was used to this by now; five years together had given me the ability to judge his mood by the small shifts in his body language. If I attempted to speak to him, calmly telling him to get undressed and into bed, he would cuss at me for my efforts. It was no longer worth the hassle.

Finally, he got to his feet and spent a great deal of time getting rid of his clothes. I could see the outline of his naked form in the dark and I idly wondered whether I would miss him if he left. He climbed into bed, stealing half of the covers. I made no attempt to retrieve them. Almost instantly, he fell into a deep sleep penetrated by thick snores that would wake me up every half hour. I marvelled once again at how easy it was for him to fall asleep. It was almost as if his head was already so empty that he had no need to sift through his thoughts before his mind could relax into sleep. Two hours later, I was still awake.

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The next morning I awoke to find his hand trickling across my side. This could only mean one thing. I mumbled and rolled over, showing him my back in a vain attempt at dissuasion. It only served to increase his persistence. I sighed inwardly, resigning myself to the task that lay in front of me. I turned back to face him and watched with a sick fascination as lust filled his eyes. I tried not to flinch. I forced a smile onto my face as I stared back at him. He reached for me, caressing my chest. I allowed him to pull me into his arms. As usual, I reached down between his legs and grasped his already hard cock. I went through the familiar motions, integrated to a point where I could switch my mind off and let my hand take over. I hoped to God that he would be satisfied with just a hand job.

My prayers weren't answered as he reached for me, soft and flaccid under his touch. I forced my mind into a dark place full of erotic images and lengthy scenarios I had created for just this purpose. I let them play out in technicolour glory behind my eyelids, thanking the heavens for their foresight in bestowing me with a good imagination. They had the desired effect, and I felt his smile as I became hard under his hand. It fascinated me how he could be so blind, how he could allow himself to believe that he was the one who turned me on. Those days were long gone.

Seemingly satisfied with my state of arousal, he moved on top of me and reached for the tube of lubricant on the bedside. I was eternally grateful that he never had any desire to prolong our foreplay. The irony never escaped me that I was the one with the high libido; that I had to masturbate at least three times a day to keep my erection from growing painful, yet I had to force myself to comply with these bi-monthly acts.

He pushed against my entrance, bending down to capture my lips with his. I went through the motions, kissing him back with a practiced passion, making the right noises in the right places as he finally pushed his way inside me. I hated how he felt; filling me up. I had to distance myself from the feeling, shutting off a part of my mind that usually dealt with reality as I let myself drift away. As he pounded inside me, grunting against my shoulder, I felt like a cheap whore. We had been playing this game for so long I wondered why we started in the first place. It was all a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, trapping me in this half decade of imprisonment

He did not take very long, which was a small mercy, and I braced myself as I heard the familiar breathing that indicated his nearing climax. He emptied himself inside me and I struggled not to grimace as he kissed me again. He pulled himself out, not bothering to linger in his afterglow, and rolled off me. I lay there silently as his fluid seeped out of me and onto the bed sheet. I felt dirty. I needed to shower. After a couple of minutes, he pulled himself out of the bed and got dressed. It was time for him to go to work.

I knew the routine by now, the same tired old drudgery that had become my life. I wondered if he was as bored as I was. He never seemed to be. He was the type of person who lived to work, who savoured the monotony of the daily grind. As long as nothing upset the applecart he was happy. I could not live like that, like this, and yet here I was. It sickened me to think how my life could have been, the person I could have been sharing my bed with. I had no idea how we had come this far, how we managed to live this lie day in day out.

Fully dressed, he bent down and kissed me. 'I love you.' he said like clockwork.

'I love you, too' I replied as expected.

He smiled and left the room, closing the door behind him. I rolled over and faced the wall, shockingly aware of the dampness under my thigh. I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, welcoming the nightmares that were the sweetest dreams compared to this life.