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Subject: {Adhara} "The Thin Veil" {M/F}
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THE THIN VEIL
by Adhara Rawcalyn
(c) 1998 By Adhara Rawcalyn. All rights reserved. May not be distributed 
or reproduced with the exception of USENET archiving without express 
written permission by the author.



The Thin Veil

By 

Adhara Rawcalyn




	The dancing shadows from the tall blue tapers played across the walls 
of the dining room and scurried over the tablecloth and curtains like 
mischievous children. She set the plate carefully at the head of the 
table and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

	With a weary sigh, she pulled the chair out and sat down, taking a long 
sip from the glass of white wine before her. She checked her watch. 
Quarter past eight. She didn't give up hope -- it wasn't even a 
possibility -- but she was disappointed he hadn't shown yet. Until she 
heard a faint rustle that drew her out of her reverie.

	"You're late," she said with a smile.

	"You know how convoluted time can get for me." He crossed the room and 
embraced her as she rose. She sank into his arms, losing herself in 
their feel. When she stepped back to take in the vision of him, her 
mouth opened in a small gasp.

	"Why, Donovan Bailey," she said. "Is that gray I detect above your 
ears?"

	"Indeed it is, madam," he replied with a flourish. "I was hoping you'd 
find me more distinguished as I grew older."

	Her eyebrows arched. "You don't have to do that, you know."

	"Marie," he began, his voice soft, floating around them in what she 
felt was sweet melody. "When I said I wanted to grow old with you, I 
meant it."

	She blinked hard as she sat across from him at the table.

	She ate sparingly, too busy filling him in on the past year's events. 
The candlelight flickered across his features, played in his eyes as 
they devoured the vision of her. He didn't eat, but merely sat at the 
end of the table, entranced by her voice.

	"Of course," she continued after a sip of wine, "it wasn't the same 
without you. No one understood why I was giggling like a schoolgirl 
during 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring'." 

	He chuckled. "Bach must have rolled in his grave over that."

	Years before, he'd taken her to a concert in the park. The warmth of 
summer's end and the darkness of the night sky enveloped them as the sun 
disappeared, leaving the two of them, arms tangled, amidst the strains 
of Bach as they wafted around them. She could remember him whispering 
the title of the piece softly in her ear as his hands had slid deftly 
and delicately to the warm, dark space between her legs. The blackness 
of the night afforded them the privacy to honor Bach's work in their 
own, unique way, and they honored it lovingly and hungrily, her 
fingernails digging into his thighs as he made her juices flow. She 
still recalled how her excitement crescendoed in time with the music, 
how the allegro movement of his practiced fingers probed the most secret 
parts of her as he searched for her moans in the darkness. She 
remembered how she released herself quietly under the ministration of 
his hand, fading pleasantly into an andante mood as the last bars of the 
inspiring work floated away.

	"Marie," he said, drawing her back to the dining room and the present. 
"Don't you think it's time you thought about finding someone else? 
Someone to keep you company, someone to make you happy like that again?"

	"You make me happy."

	"You know what I mean."

	She looked at her plate as her fingers worked the corner of the napkin 
into tiny folds. "No one can make me happy like you did, Donovan."

	"But you're young and --"

	"I'm 56."

	"That's young."

	"I'm set in my ways," she said, her voice gently but clearly conveying 
she had no interest in carrying this conversation thread any further. 
"No one can replace the eighteen years we had together. No one."

	It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it; she'd met a few men who had 
tempted her here and there. But Marie Bailey had created a life for 
herself that didn't allow for the unfamiliar. It didn't allow for her to 
give up this.

	They rose in unison, so many years giving them the ability to act as 
one, even now. He went to her and enfolded her once again in his arms.

	"I'm glad," he said softly in her ear. "I don't want to be without 
this."

	She moaned softly as his lips brushed over the soft skin behind her 
ear. It had never felt like this, in the eighteen years they'd been 
married. She'd never felt the odd sensation of him moving through her 
like a light breeze, of his hands tingling over her skin like this, like 
they did now. Like they had last year, and the six years before that.

	She helped him by removing her blouse and skirt and letting them fall 
to the floor. 

	"You never kept such a messy house when I was here," he murmured 
provocatively, glancing at the disheveled pile of clothing at her feet.

	"I can take liberties now," she replied, her breath rushing to catch up 
with her words as his hands traveled over the bare flesh of her back.

	She reached behind her to unhook her bra and let that, too, fall to the 
floor. She heard a soft groan creep out of his throat as she moved back 
a bit and stepped out of her panties.

	"Shall we?" She asked as she moved to go upstairs.

	He followed her, his eyes dancing palpably over her body, watching her 
hips sway as she slowly climbed the stairs before him. In the bedroom, 
she lost herself in the darkness and lay on the bed.

	She knew she would not feel him slide into her the way he'd done all 
those years before. She knew that the hands she felt caressing her skin 
now and pausing over her dark, hardened nipples were not real. She felt 
the now familiar tingle as she joined with him in a way no other human 
she knew could do, as his form slipped through the thin veil that kept 
them apart now. In her mind, she felt him slide up alongside her in the 
bed, her skin on cold fire from the ethereal glow of his touch. She felt 
him respond to the warmth and wetness between her legs without words. 
And while the back she gripped with fingernails wasn't really flesh and 
blood, he'd done his best to create the illusion for her that it was.

	They molded themselves together so easily, their familiarity being the 
greatest comfort rather than the greatest bore. She felt him everywhere 
at once -- inside her, above her, behind her, around her. She felt him 
touch the deepest crevices of her mind as the first wave of her orgasm 
began, and she cried his name out into the darkness.

	"I still love you, Marie," he said softly.

	"I know."

	It was understood that this was their goodbye until the next time 
they'd meet, one year later. And as she always did, she went to the 
cemetery the next day with a bouquet of yellow daisies, his favorite, 
and placed them on the headstone of one Donovan Bailey, loving husband, 
who'd died of cancer seven years before.   

--------------------------------------
Adhara Rawcalyn: eros_dreams@hotmail.com



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