Chapter 123: Breaking Through Limits

Lisa's POV

I’m standing in the door frame of our bedroom, holding my coffee cup with both hands, with steam lazily spiraling up.

The room is a mess.

The sheet is bunched up and half-fallen off the bed, cushions peppering the ground as if they were heaved in anger—which, if I’m truthful, they were. Leo’s shirt from last night is draped over the back of a chair, my dress lies in a crumpled heap on the floor under it in a pool of emerald silk.

There are candles on the nightstand, burnt to nubs, wax running on to the wood in artistic strips.

Evidence.

Proof of a night weekend.

Leo got up early for a meeting in the morning — something he couldn’t reschedule, though he’d kissed me thoroughly before leaving.

Which means I’m left alone to deal with what’s left behind.

And the memories. I place my coffee on top of the dresser and start with the simplest chore: corralling the pillows. I bend over to grab the first one from by the door, and I’m immediately taken back to last night—Leo pinning me to that very door, his mouth blazing on mine, hands all over, neither of us willing to wait to even make it to the bed at first.

My face gets warmer and redder.

I throw the pillow onto the bed and make for the window to fetch a second one. This one makes me think of later, after we’d at last arrived at the mattress, when Leo had obtained it to place under my hips, angling me just right, making me see stars.

God.

I hold the pillow against my chest for a moment, inhaling the smell that has grown so familiar—Leo’s cologne combined with my perfume, that special mixture that defines us, as one.

Get it together Lisa, I tell myself, but I do look like an idiot with this goofy-ass smile on my face.

I collect the rest, and place them neatly at the foot of the bed, fluffing and molding them until they feel presentable. I flip my focus to the sheets.

They're unbelievably knotted up, knotted up, knotted up from hours. I tug at a corner, attempt to smooth it out, and I nearly laugh at how thoroughly we’d wrecked our little bubble of neatness. The fitted sheet is pulled off one corner, the flat sheet is crumpled at the foot of the bed and the duvet is half on the floor. I take it all off in an orderly way, pulling the fabric towards me in my arms.

I smell it again— that personal, unique scent of sex and sleep and Leo. It makes that place deep down in my belly clench with desire, and he’s not even here.

Down girl, downgirl, I think wryly. He’ll be home in a couple of hours. I take the bundle to the laundry room and start it in the washing machine with, I think, more care than is necessary. These sheets have been through a lot—lazy Sunday mornings, whispered confessions, passionate nights, tender lovemaking and panicked encounters. They're just fabric, but they seem meaningful somehow.

The meal he'd cooked so lovingly, although we had scarcely eaten before passion seized us both. His hands on my waist, his mouth on my neck, that low sound he utters when I touch him just so.

I flap the fitted sheet, snapping it in the air, then I start putting it on the mattress. The physical exertion aids in grounding me, but my thoughts continue to wander. I think of the frantic scrambling at the door, the way we couldn’t get in close enough, couldn't dig out clothes fast enough.

How he’d held me up, my legs coiled around his waist, gasping together at our first union. How we made our way, stumbling, to the bed, never breaking apart, united and fearful and so beautifully synchronized.

The first corner of the sheet is secure. I’m shuffling over to the second.

I remember finally getting to the bed, Leo laying me down as if I were something precious even in the midst of passion. The way he’d kissed his way down my body, taking his time in spite of my protests, until I was trembling and begging. The smug satisfaction on his face when he at last gave me what I required.

Second corner done. Third corner next.

I remember the feel of his weight upon me, in me, all about me. How we danced — sometimes slow and deep, sometimes quick and panicked, responding to each other’s needs without uttering a single word. His eyes were fixed on mine, and he wouldn’t let me look away, made sure I was present for every single second.

The sheets had bunched up under us as we moved, unnoticed and immaterial.

Fourth corner secured. I run my hands over the mattress, smoothing out the wrinkles.

I remember the first time I’d broken down crying out his name, my nails digging into his back. How he’d come a few seconds later, my name a prayer on his lips. The way we’d fallen, side by side, heartbeats racing, totally and utterly spent. And then, 20 minutes later, we were at it again.

I have to stop and I press “my hand to my hot face. The room feels hotter now.

I reach for the flat sheet, laying it over the fitted sheet, tucking the bottom edge under the mattress and making hospital corners — a trick my grandmother taught me years ago. The familiar action is comforting, putting my hands to work as my mind wanders.

The second time had been slower, more leisurely. Leo had savored his time, drawn out every sensation, forcing me to beg all over again in a completely different way. We made love as though it was our first time, despite having familiarized ourselves with each other's bodies numerous times.

There is always something new you can find, some new sound you can bring out, some new way you can break apart together.

I press down the flat sheet, making it smooth on both sides.

I still remember us lying tangled up after, too pooped to move, whispering about nothing and everything. His fingers tracing patterns on my back. With my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. The wordless, comfortable quiet that was more intimate than words.

Next is the duvet. I lay it out and fluff it up a bit so it lays evenly I press it down flat and make sure the filling is evenly distributed. It's a king-size bed—we'd upped our last place a few notches, both of us acknowledging we needed more room.

Although we never use it. We always wake up wrapped up in the middle of the bed, moving towards one another in our sleep.

I take a step back and look at what I've done. The bed looks just perfect now—clean, enticing, as if it came out of a magazine. You'd never suspect that a few hours earlier it was the scene of such ruthless debauchery.

But I know.

I know every single second that happened in there. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered love word.

I go next to the nightstands, and gather the candles that have burned down. We had lit them for ambiance, but they’d gutted completely, wax puddled on the bottom. I mentally remind myself to get more – we’re getting through them fast these days.

There’s a wineglass on Leo’s nightstand, and it still has dark residue at the bottom. We’d had it at some point, shared it, between kisses. I pick it up, remembering how he’d brought it to my lips, tipping it gently, his eyes dark with lust as I’d swallowed.

In the kitchen, as I told him. That's where glasses go.

But I'm thinking about it as I smile.

I also pick up a couple other odd and ends – my earrings on the dresser – taken out in a hurry at some point. Leo’s watch on the floor at his side of the bed, no doubt fallen from the nightstand. A hair tie I can’t even remember taking out.

The room is beginning to look like a room again. I take the green dress from the chair, running my hands over the crumpled silk. It had looked so flawless when I slipped it on, meticulously selected to make a statement. Leo was certainly impressed—I recall how his breath had caught when he’d first laid eyes on me.

It’s worth every penny, I think, stowing it in the closet.

He tosses his shirt in the dirty clothes basket. I’m going to wash it with the sheets, although a part of me wants to keep wearing it, wants to hold onto his scent just a little longer.

I’m being ridiculous, I know. He'll be home in a few hours. I will see him tonight, and I will probably end up in this very bed again, making new memories to bury the old ones.

But still. I still miss him. I open the windows to air it out, the breeze immediately dispelling the previous night’s closeness of the room. It’s probably for the best—I have to be able to function today, not just stand here blushing and reminiscing.

The chest of drawers needs tidying — a photo frame had somehow fallen over. I pick it up, smiling at the photo: us on the beach a few months ago, windswept and laughing, completely happy.

We take more pictures now. Document moments. Create a “memory bank” that exists outside of our minds.

I dust the surface hastily, move a few things that had been displaced, and then clean up the mess.

Then I turn back to the room as a whole.

The whispered "I love yous" in the dark. The feeling of being so perfectly and completely doted upon.

That's what I'm going to take away from today. Not even just a memory of bodies and pleasure — though those are all there too — but a memory of being loved so thoroughly, so totally, so absolutely.

I raise my coffee mug and take a sip. it's turned lukewarm as I’ve been reminiscing and cleaning, but I don’t care.

My phone buzzes on the dresser. I pick it up, smile when I see Leo’s name.

Missing you already. Meeting's almost over. Can't wait to come home

My heart does that dumb flutter thing every time he texts me. I type back quickly:

_The room's all clean. Bed's made. _

His response is immediate:

_Definitely messing it up later. You in that bed is my favorite view. _

Again, I blush as I stand by myself in our bedroom, smiling at my phone like a teenager.

Hurry home.

Count on it. Love you.

Love you too

I set the I down, taking one final look at the spotless room. In a few hours Leo will come home. We'll eat, probably on the couch,because we're just as Stupid as ever about eating at the table. We'll talk about our days, swap tales, chuckle at nothing.

And then, of course, we'll find ourselves back here.

And I'll have the chance to make new memories that will give me the opportunity to blush while cleaning tomorrow.

That thought makes me smile wider.

I exit the bedroom, gently closing the door behind me and I'm already ticking off the hours until he is home.

Until we’re together again.

Until this bed, perfectly made for me, is perfectly unmade by me again.

I really should be blushing thinking about how much I’m looking forward to that. But I don’t.

Not even a bit.