Anticlimax

The poster bed trembled as he got on his fours. It was older than his dead grandfather, and had been a silent witness to deeds that no living eyes had seen. It let out a sigh that could be heard only by her, the one who lay beneath; waiting in solitude. His wobbly knees dug into the old coir mattress and his hands expertly positioned itself near her head catching unaware those few strands of grey. With trepidation he lowered himself and let the ever curious member make way to a dark yet so-familiar place. She was conditioned to open up the door when she felt the knock, just one at first and then almost a vandalised pushing as if it were resident to the secret place. She didn’t resist the stranger, never had, not once in forty years. She let him in most graciously and let him stay as long as he wanted. When the guest had retreated, she clamped the door shut until another social visit.

He was still a-visiting as the poster bed sighed again. She closed her eyes and let a forced calmness envelope her. Before she could distract her mind from its current state of ennui,  something escaped from inside her, so quietly yet so fastidiously. It ran out of the open door before she could hold it by its wrinkled neck and coax it back to its position of guard. Her body was in its practised rhythm but her eyes rolled up and down frantically in search of the guilty prisoner of longing. And then she saw.

After four decades of the missionary, the dormant woman woke up and stood aside holding one arm of the poster bed as if in comradeship. Her frayed white panties with little red flowers were pulled up high, and she smiled as she saw the woman lying on the bed look back at her in relief.