Space
He loves Hawaiian shirts. You discovered a collection of them last year when you were looking for a pair of dress pants in his closet. Every now and then, when he isn’t home, you check to see if there are any new ones. You are never disappointed. You have never seen him wear any of them. As far as you know, he never has.
You don’t think he really intends for them to be a secret. Their existence just isn’t something he thought to share with anyone, and the fact that you made the discovery makes it even more special. You never think to tell anyone either - not really for any conscious reason. It just seems to make sense. You don’t even mention it to him.
He leaves them behind when he moves out. He probably doesn’t want his beautiful wife to see them. You approve of the decision, only because you can imagine her discovering them, wearing them as nightshirts, sliding those smooth olive legs against him and ruining them.
You wear them yourself sometimes - not where anyone could see of course. It’s nice to crawl inside his empty closet and sit on the floor, wrapped up in some horrendous shirt that smells like him just by being associated with the clothes he actually wore often. He isn’t really very far away, but you miss him..
When he visits, you hold his hand and feel like a child, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He hasn’t denied you needy hurried kisses against the closed doors of empty rooms or the quick hot feeling of his hand against your cock until you come with a gasp, and he turns away. You know he doesn’t mean to leave you alone. You know it’s just inevitable.
Sometimes, when you see them together, the way the curves of her body just mold against him, like she is a wet shirt clinging to his skin, you envy her. She has him. All you have are some old Hawaiian shirts. You know he pities you. He takes pity on you. He allows you what he can while you’re near him but his body is always going to fit best with hers.
You bought him a new shirt - a silly Hawaiian one. It’s red, because he has always looked beautiful in red. The flowers on it are white and pink. You wait until you’re alone to give it to him. He looks puzzled for a moment, but the creases in his forehead smooth out. When you ask him to put it on, he does, and you just look at him. You tell him that you know he’ll always choose her. He wants to protest that he doesn’t have to choose anyone, but you lay your hand against his chest, and he stops talking.
He looks beautiful to you, always, no matter what. For a heartbeat, there is a strain of regret in his eyes. She has never told him that. The next day, the shirts are gone from his closet. You don’t worry about her ruining them. They aren’t something she’ll understand.
So he’ll never completely choose her.
You don’t think he really intends for them to be a secret. Their existence just isn’t something he thought to share with anyone, and the fact that you made the discovery makes it even more special. You never think to tell anyone either - not really for any conscious reason. It just seems to make sense. You don’t even mention it to him.
He leaves them behind when he moves out. He probably doesn’t want his beautiful wife to see them. You approve of the decision, only because you can imagine her discovering them, wearing them as nightshirts, sliding those smooth olive legs against him and ruining them.
You wear them yourself sometimes - not where anyone could see of course. It’s nice to crawl inside his empty closet and sit on the floor, wrapped up in some horrendous shirt that smells like him just by being associated with the clothes he actually wore often. He isn’t really very far away, but you miss him..
When he visits, you hold his hand and feel like a child, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He hasn’t denied you needy hurried kisses against the closed doors of empty rooms or the quick hot feeling of his hand against your cock until you come with a gasp, and he turns away. You know he doesn’t mean to leave you alone. You know it’s just inevitable.
Sometimes, when you see them together, the way the curves of her body just mold against him, like she is a wet shirt clinging to his skin, you envy her. She has him. All you have are some old Hawaiian shirts. You know he pities you. He takes pity on you. He allows you what he can while you’re near him but his body is always going to fit best with hers.
You bought him a new shirt - a silly Hawaiian one. It’s red, because he has always looked beautiful in red. The flowers on it are white and pink. You wait until you’re alone to give it to him. He looks puzzled for a moment, but the creases in his forehead smooth out. When you ask him to put it on, he does, and you just look at him. You tell him that you know he’ll always choose her. He wants to protest that he doesn’t have to choose anyone, but you lay your hand against his chest, and he stops talking.
He looks beautiful to you, always, no matter what. For a heartbeat, there is a strain of regret in his eyes. She has never told him that. The next day, the shirts are gone from his closet. You don’t worry about her ruining them. They aren’t something she’ll understand.
So he’ll never completely choose her.