Find a Way to my Heart

Written By KnighT, Thriller Story

And what's the way to a man's heart? would have been your question. But this is a wedding, four kids and thirteen years later. After losing, gradually, the heart of Liam, your concern is flipped: What's the way back to a man's heart?

Kate, your BFF who, ironically, is no friend of Liam's and vice versa—he finds her lousy, she considers him cocky–says pleasure is the password, speaking of the two best things men like: Food and sex. Both are meals actually. You do not fault her counsel—not that you've ever had to. Plus, the idea is a no-brainer; you just had gotten lost in the rut of this marital shebang to easily keep tabs on the everyday niceties of teenage romance.

You reiterate the formula to yourself again: The way [back] to a man's heart is (a) through his belly, and er, well, (b) through just below his belly.

Your readjustment program had begun the month before. Creams for the nasty stretch marks, serious minded exercise for the flabby flesh all over, regular Kegel for the wideness...jeez, who would carelessly lose form (and function, probably) this drastically and not lose a doting hubby alongside?

Today you're raising things a notch. You're taking the initiative to, well, initiate things. Dropping the kids off at your mother's, leaving work three hours earlier than close of business with due permission, going shopping for ingredients for his favorite dish, some candles, his favorite wine and, of course, an expensive lingerie, the weekend was going to be a blast. A deliberate one.

In the room department he is in for a treat. A pleasuring him 'til he cries for his mommy, a showing him the tricks you can do, the tricks there are, a taking him to places he's never ever been or thought possible. Ah, you've researched tonnes, Googled plenty. You won't play it easy or safe anymore—this is your husband, the singular recipient of your marital vows, the sole subject of your affection, the one whose heart you should be the custodian of but inadvertently watched go adrift. Safe was the epic misjudgment in hoping the advent of kids would reignite the fire for each other until they not only came between you, but redefined your world entirely. Safe was you not wanting to try out things with him, on him, or while under him lest he start to ask where you learnt them. Safe was you watching the same man who could not have enough of you become someone who wanted no more of what's left. Safe was—no, safe has no place here. No more. You have to be wild to regain your man. And wild you'd be.

You enter into the house, bobbing your head to Phil Collins' "Find a Way to My Heart," ripping into your skull via your headphones, riveting acoustics reaching stirring you in places. Dropping the heavy shopping packs, you review your agenda. Cook, then set the mood of the house; shower, then call him if he hasn't arrived yet. Um, no, you are more eager for the copulative than the culinary. So you start to trail rose petals from the doorway, past the study, up the spiral staircase, across the front of the kids' rooms into the threshold of the bedroom.

You freeze on hearing heavy metal music from inside. Bummer, Liam is home already. How come his car isn't in the garage? You want to go and change into the outfit for the evening. The evening couldn't start any more spontaneously, you snigger. You are tempted to peep at him first, the slightly ajar door an inducement.

Did you freeze before? That first time was figurative.

There on your matrimonial bed is your husband, back turned to you, ramming some thing under the covers, the two of them giving off discordant tunes—he yelling like he is gunning for a prize, and she groaning like she is resisting his aim. He never turns around, doesn't see you, just as you can't see whoever the bitch is. You do not experience any prick of conscience over the expletive not to mention offering a usual quick-fix prayer of forgiveness.

You sidle away, your body trembling, tears blurring your vision. You don't know what to do, or where to go. Anywhere but here. Your body trembling, you hold the balustrade for support at the shock. Then you turn around. You grab an object from your shopping pack. You don't know why, and incidentally do not want to find out. You keep walking. Faster. And toward the room, and past the door. Trampling the rose.

You charge at him, screaming like a wounded samurai making a last ditch attempt at an undefeated opponent, but you miss as, turning around at your voice, he dodges. Your switchblade goes in somewhere else, and all the way home finding its way into the heart of the slut...Kate? Your voice is trembling.

You twist the knife all ways possible.

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