“Amanda.” She said. “You may call me Amanda. It’s my real name”
I pretend I care. She thinks adding a deeper level of intimacy will make me get of harder. It won’t.
I lower my chin below her hairline and as my lips graze her skin “.....Amanda…”. Mostly I’m just saying it out loud as to commit it to memory.
Placing her gently on the bed I crawl over her and tug on the pull string of the bedside table lamp. The room goes black.
And like the switch that was turned off my mind turns on to Rachel. In my mind I’m with Rachel. This woman, ‘Amanda’, has the same slender legs as Rachel. She has the same flat backside as Rachel. I can tell this prostitute is self conscious of her flat butt, just like Rachel.
She starts to talk to me and I tell her “Shhhh, quiet baby.” I don’t want her to dilute the barely nearness I’m getting to Rachel. Rachel wouldn’t talk. She would just experience it.
Amanda quiets and lays back. Her breasts fall to the sides of her chest and her stomach has a belt of stretch marks, each a telling of a child born. I ripple my fingers over them and let out a heavy, deep sigh. Just like Rachel.
I run my fingers up her trunk past the curve of the side of her breast and over her neck up the side of her face and into her loose curly hair. My mind flashes to the late of the summer days and I can just see Rachel on a walking trail up ahead of me. She turns around quickly and her curls...oh, her curls just make me ache.
I grip on to Amanda’s hair and pull her head back start to kiss her jawline. My other hand searches down the other side of Amanda over her belly button, over her hair, in between her legs, down the inside of her thigh. Then its over. I lose it. I go flaccid and pretend play time is over. It didn’t work, again.
I give Amanda money for her time and walk this poor confused woman out the door after much insisting that she didn’t do anything wrong.
I head back to my bed and crash onto my pillow which quickly becomes saturated with the ocean of salty tears that are now pouring out of my eyes. Rachel is gone. She is dead. My wife is dead and I just can not move on. No matter how many prostitutes might look similar to her, none of them have that unforgettable quirky mole on the inside of their thigh. Rachel is dead and she’s never coming back.
I roll over, I set my alarm clock, I go to bed. Rachel is dead.
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