MetaFic

He says goodbye with a peck on my check. He is smiling and joking but I am not fooled. His eyes betray his unease, and I’m aware of his betrayal. I ask myself ‘when did it begin? When did I lose his love? When did his attention wander?’

The house is empty; and being October the children are all at school. I can’t help but feel bitter; I poured my heart and soul into raising our children – his children, and now my job is nearly over, I turn around and his mind and body are elsewhere.

The washing up is finished and it soon packs itself away leaving the kitchen quiet once again. There is the shopping to do and the washing as well, but I’ve got plenty of clean clothes and if he finds his dress robes are not ready when he needs them, well perhaps she can do that for him as well.

I hated the last reception he took me to. The knowing, pitting looks from his colleagues, his eyes wandering over to her when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Reluctantly I stuff the dirty clothes into our twin tub. Harry tried to get me to buy an automatic, but that is one step too far from using a cauldron for my liking. I’ve charmed it so it does the job and it’s my bit of rebellion.

I look up from the trees I’m pruning as the village clock chimes five o’clock. He should be home soon, but I’m expecting an owl letting me know I’m eating alone again. Despite myself I finish up and wander inside to cook his tea. As I stand under the shower, feeling the powerful jets of hot water cascade over me, I allow my tears to mingle with the water. I’m fooling myself I know, but there is something comforting in their being hidden in the volume that pours over me.

It is seven o’clock when the ministry owl arrives, but I have already gone ahead and eaten. I allow the tawny to pick at the meat that sits on his plate. After the owl has gone, I send his plate into the dustbin outside and it disappears with a grateful burp.

The evening passes slowly; the steady tic-tock of the Grandfather Clock in the hall and the occasional spark from the fire my only companions. By the time I turn in, the fire has burnt down low and I contemplate throwing a few more lumps of nutty slack on it so it lasts the rest of the night and he won’t be cold. Because despite it all, I love him and I want him back. Yes I’m angry with him and yes I want him to know how much he’s hurt me, but I want to feel his lips on mine and his fingers making me squirm with pleasure. To know that despite it all; the stretch marks, the plumper figure, the time he’s spent with her, that he finds his pleasure in me.

I’m awoken by his hand slipping under my nightdress and caressing my stomach. His touch is light and delicate as if he feels he will break me. Or that he expects to be rejected. I roll away from him fighting conflicting desires; longing for his touch but hating it at the same time. His hand moves to the top of the thigh that has been exposed by my turning away. With slow, deliberate movements, it works its way up to my hip and I shiver as he caresses it. How long has it been since we made love? I can’t remember; the memory has long faded. I feel my desire rising and I curse my body for betraying me, but I know that he can satisfy me in a way that my fingers never can. I roll onto my back and he parts my thighs. He whispers in my ears the way he used to and as he enters me I find myself hoping that I’m not fooling myself. That he means it and in the morning he will look me in the eye, tell me he loves me and I will know it to be true.