They had passed some weeks since I got married and decided that I didn't want to be with me anymore. I slowly returned to my life, more annoyed for having put up with it so much than sad because from day to night he had decided not to see me again. For Christmas, he sent me a message so impersonally unbearable that it made me nauseous. I thanked him the same way. I spent the days entertained with a writing book I received some days after that breakup without a kiss. The new year arrived. I resumed my sessions with the psychologist and told her what had happened. I thought I would cry when talking about this, in general I cry for everything, but it wasn't like that. I told my therapist about it as if it were nothing more. Even I was surprised by my coldness. I left the consultation and went to lunch, always writing down the conclusions of what we talked about in session in a notebook. I was doing this when my phone rang. I looked up from the notebook, it was him. At first, I doubted because the photo wasn't the same. I also doubted whether to open the message, but curiosity didn't take more than five minutes to do its thing. They were some photos from Punta del Este. Beautiful, I said. I didn't ask if he was there for work or just vacationing. It didn't matter, he told me. The days passed, he sent more photos and comments of all kinds. He never asked how I was doing. Neither did I ask anything. On February 10th, the day I turn years old (note that date to wish me a happy birthday), he called. It was around noon. He wanted to come and wish me a happy birthday in person. I was waiting for my nephews to pick me up because I was going to lunch with them since the next day I was going to the coast and wasn't going to do anything at home. I knew his thing was a quick fling, he could have said yes, but I said no. It wasn't that I didn't want to get together, but I didn't feel like making an effort to adjust my schedule for him. Not this time. I left on vacation. I don't remember if... We talk. I was already back at the office on a Monday and he wrote to me, as always telling me everything and that his wife was away with friends. He talked about her and immediately turned off. But I read it. He still had the habit of putting himself in victim mode and managed to get me to say we could have lunch together. We met near my office, his intention was to go to my house, but if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn't want to be at my place anymore. We ended up in a modern little bar near home. Nothing had happened until then. I was confident and secure. But when he was right in front of me, things changed a bit. I kept calm. We ordered salads. The waitress came over, he showed all his charm and I lost myself staring at his mouth. I saw him moving those plump lips that had traveled so much through me and imagined them kissing me again. I wasn't listening to what he was saying to the girl taking the order or making suggestions. In my head, the situation went beyond that table. I perceived each of his movements as if in another reality. When he stretched out his hand to return the menu to the girl, I felt that sensation I felt when he stretched out his arms to bring our bodies closer, I felt that sweet prickling when he put his hands on my breasts and caressed them, and without being able to help it, my nipples got hard, I felt the heat in my face, I think he didn't notice. He was talking. You're not listening, he said at one point; and it was true. Yes, of course, I lied, but what he was telling me was just more of the same, his marital problems, complaints about his kids, things that by then seemed ridiculously stupid and alien to me. I made some comment, those I knew he expected from me, he calmed down. The day before my team had beaten our classic rival and while we were talking about it, I couldn't help but recall the tremendous screwing we gave each other one day in that hotel where we stored our passions, back then. also from a classic of my club. I made a move to get that memory out of my head, but it was impossible, we saw each other there, sweating sex in that place. Our lunch arrived. Every time I saw him take something to his mouth I deeply desired that what was approaching his lips would be my lips, my tits or my pussy. I listened to him talk and my deepest desire was for those words to be the obscenities we used to say during those marathon sex afternoons of the four years preceding that lunch. He said something about the music playing and tapped out the rhythm with his fingers on the table and I felt again the sensation of those fingers entering my wet pussy or slapping against my ass as he grabbed me in four. I don't have a record of how many stupid things I said during that entire lunch where my head had traveled from his lips to my hottest memories. I went to the bathroom, it was wet, I touched my almost erect clitoris, put my fingers in to calm the heat rising from my stomach to my brain. I splashed some water on my face and neck to bring down the heat. I returned to the table. We paid, left the place. We stayed talking for a bit by the car. You take me, he said. No, thank you, I replied, friendly but ruthless. I knew he wanted to fuck, but since it didn't matter to him whether he fucked with me or anyone else, I decided not to be with him. He gave up. I was only four blocks from home, I told him I'd stop by the market on my way back to buy some things that....
They had passed some weeks since I got married and decided that I didn't want to be with me anymore. I slowly returned to my life, more annoyed for having put up with it so much than sad because from day to night he had decided not to see me again. For Christmas, he sent me a message so impersonally unbearable that it made me nauseous. I thanked him the same way. I spent the days entertained with a writing book I received some days after that breakup without a kiss. The new year arrived. I resumed my sessions with the psychologist and told her what had happened. I thought I would cry when talking about this, in general I cry for everything, but it wasn't like that. I told my therapist about it as if it were nothing more. Even I was surprised by my coldness. I left the consultation and went to lunch, always writing down the conclusions of what we talked about in session in a notebook. I was doing this when my phone rang. I looked up from the notebook, it was him. At first, I doubted because the photo wasn't the same. I also doubted whether to open the message, but curiosity didn't take more than five minutes to do its thing. They were some photos from Punta del Este. Beautiful, I said. I didn't ask if he was there for work or just vacationing. It didn't matter, he told me. The days passed, he sent more photos and comments of all kinds. He never asked how I was doing. Neither did I ask anything. On February 10th, the day I turn years old (note that date to wish me a happy birthday), he called. It was around noon. He wanted to come and wish me a happy birthday in person. I was waiting for my nephews to pick me up because I was going to lunch with them since the next day I was going to the coast and wasn't going to do anything at home. I knew his thing was a quick fling, he could have said yes, but I said no. It wasn't that I didn't want to get together, but I didn't feel like making an effort to adjust my schedule for him. Not this time. I left on vacation. I don't remember if... We talk. I was already back at the office on a Monday and he wrote to me, as always telling me everything and that his wife was away with friends. He talked about her and immediately turned off. But I read it. He still had the habit of putting himself in victim mode and managed to get me to say we could have lunch together. We met near my office, his intention was to go to my house, but if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn't want to be at my place anymore. We ended up in a modern little bar near home. Nothing had happened until then. I was confident and secure. But when he was right in front of me, things changed a bit. I kept calm. We ordered salads. The waitress came over, he showed all his charm and I lost myself staring at his mouth. I saw him moving those plump lips that had traveled so much through me and imagined them kissing me again. I wasn't listening to what he was saying to the girl taking the order or making suggestions. In my head, the situation went beyond that table. I perceived each of his movements as if in another reality. When he stretched out his hand to return the menu to the girl, I felt that sensation I felt when he stretched out his arms to bring our bodies closer, I felt that sweet prickling when he put his hands on my breasts and caressed them, and without being able to help it, my nipples got hard, I felt the heat in my face, I think he didn't notice. He was talking. You're not listening, he said at one point; and it was true. Yes, of course, I lied, but what he was telling me was just more of the same, his marital problems, complaints about his kids, things that by then seemed ridiculously stupid and alien to me. I made some comment, those I knew he expected from me, he calmed down. The day before my team had beaten our classic rival and while we were talking about it, I couldn't help but recall the tremendous screwing we gave each other one day in that hotel where we stored our passions, back then. also from a classic of my club. I made a move to get that memory out of my head, but it was impossible, we saw each other there, sweating sex in that place. Our lunch arrived. Every time I saw him take something to his mouth I deeply desired that what was approaching his lips would be my lips, my tits or my pussy. I listened to him talk and my deepest desire was for those words to be the obscenities we used to say during those marathon sex afternoons of the four years preceding that lunch. He said something about the music playing and tapped out the rhythm with his fingers on the table and I felt again the sensation of those fingers entering my wet pussy or slapping against my ass as he grabbed me in four. I don't have a record of how many stupid things I said during that entire lunch where my head had traveled from his lips to my hottest memories. I went to the bathroom, it was wet, I touched my almost erect clitoris, put my fingers in to calm the heat rising from my stomach to my brain. I splashed some water on my face and neck to bring down the heat. I returned to the table. We paid, left the place. We stayed talking for a bit by the car. You take me, he said. No, thank you, I replied, friendly but ruthless. I knew he wanted to fuck, but since it didn't matter to him whether he fucked with me or anyone else, I decided not to be with him. He gave up. I was only four blocks from home, I told him I'd stop by the market on my way back to buy some things that....
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