At exactly 8 PM her cell-phone rings in her hand. She’s expecting the call – that’s why she’s holding the cell-phone in her hand. She looks at the caller-id, accepts the call, moves the mobile phone near her ear and says, “I love you, darling!”
“I love you, Sugar!” says her husband’s voice from half way around the globe. On his bed beside him, sprawled with arms and legs outstretched like a fallen statue, the naked woman is still asleep, her breathing untroubled.
It’s a long distance marriage, and they’ve been following the same drill for quite some time now – two calls every day at exactly the same time (Eight in the morning she calls him up just before leaving for work and eight in the evening she receives his call from half way across the globe just before he leaves for work). And both of them start their conversation automatically with the words : “I love you, darling! Or, I love you, Sugar!” He’s her ‘darling’ and she’s his ‘Sugar’!
“How was your day?” the husband asks.
“Hectic. Lot’s of work. Deadlines!” the wife answers. She steals a glance at the handsome young man sitting beside her in the darkened lounge bar.
“It’s terrible here too,” the husband says. “Too much traveling. Sales meets, seminars, conferences. One hotel to another. Living out of a suitcase. I’m feeling exhausted.”
It’s true. The husband is indeed feeling exhausted; a relaxing, satiating kind of exhaustion. He gets up and opens the window and allows the early morning air to cool his body, then turns around and looks at the marvelous body of the woman on his bed. She looks lovelier than ever before, and as he remembers the ferocity of her lovemaking, he feels waves of desire rise within him. Not for a long time has the mere sight of a woman aroused the lion in him to such an extent. He smiles to himself. He feels proud and elated; it was a grand performance. Spontaneous lovemaking at its best; not like the planned and contrived lovemaking with his wife, each performing for the other’s pleasure and both faking pleasure thinking the other would not know.
“Yes,darling. Poor you. I can understand,” the wife says, and sips her cocktail. It’s her third. She wonders what it is – the mysterious but deadly potent cocktails her companion is plying her with, and she is feeling gloriously high.
“I’m just waiting for this hectic spell of work to be over so we can meet,” the husband says. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the sleeping woman. Marveling. It is difficult to believe that in a few hours from now they would be addressing each other formally again.
“Oh, yes. It’s been three months and I’m dying to meet you. When are we meeting?” the wife asks.
“I’m planning a fantastic vacation. I’ll let you know soon. We’ll go to some exotic place. Just the two of us. Quality Time!” the husband says to his wife, looking yearningly at the gorgeously sexy woman on his bed.
“That’s great! We must spend some Quality Time together.” the wife says, snuggling against her strikingly handsome colleague. He presses his knee against hers. She presses hers against his. He moves his hand around her over her soft skin and pulls her gently. She feels an inchoate desire. He gently strokes her hair, and she turns towards him, her mouth partly open as he leans over her. Fuelled by the alcohol in her veins, she can sense the want churning inside her like fire. And as she looks into his eyes, and feels the intensity of his caresses, she can sense her resistance melting.
“I love you, Sugar!” the husband says.
“I love you, darling!” the wife says.
Their standard routine scheduled communication completed, both of them disconnect their cell-phones. And carry on with renewed zeal their respective amorous interests presently in hand.
I’ve heard somewhere. Absence makes the heart grow fonder –for someone else.
Unnatural loneliness; for too long. It does take its toll, doesn’t it?
And as far as ‘Quality Time’ is concerned. There’s no doubt about it. It’s Quality Time that sustains and nourishes long distance marriages. Yes. Quality Time – with someone else!
Dear Reader, do you agree? Or, don’t you?