Memory and Loss Pt. 02

Bbw

Every now and then during my life things have happened that I cannot explain, at least not in any rational way. Some may call them coincidence, but I am not so sure. Certainly the events that I am about to recount fit into a category that I can only call “strange”.

In this case it was a matter of minutes, long seconds at most, that determined that, yes, I have a story to tell. A minute different, either earlier or later, and there would be no words here, no strangeness, no memory. A minute sooner or a minute later, not even sixty seconds, possibly, and there would be no forgiveness, no redemption, and my life would not be the same.

My life would be almost as rich, I am sure, but not quite so rich. I would have a book of poems, I am sure, but a page in that book would not be folded back as a permanence, a proof. I would see smiles, I am sure, but never smiles quite like hers, never quite so beautiful. I would dream dreams, I am sure, but not of her, hauntingly and repeatedly down through the nights.

The tale I am about to tell pivots around an irrational set of events, an unbelievable set of circumstances, a moment that simply should not have happened, a coincidence beyond all coincidences. For me this pivot, and what followed, has become a defining thing, a sustaining thing, a heartbreaking thing. It is my mystery, and the reason I know strange things do happen. Fiction is strange, but truth is stranger.

Why this pivot happened is the unknown thing. How it happened? Perhaps “coincidence” is the only word, but if it is, a hell of a lot of them converged on that simple suburban shopping square that day. A whole truck load of coincidence. So many unexpected events fell into place that day, that I sometimes wonder if someone was driving that truck. It might have been a random sequence of events – if so, random works in mysterious ways.

I have written somewhere that most of the tales I have posted on this website have a tiny glimmer of truth at their heart, and I have taken that grain and written of pearls and sea, and dark hair falling and fair hair blowing in the wind, and birds that shift shapes as they fly. I have written of women who do exist and I have written of women who never existed.

I have written songs of sirens and siren songs, and sometimes I the author have pushed my narrator aside for a paragraph or two, and taken his voice, taken his place, taken his women and got my own women back for another moment.

I have written of my unreliable narrators, and I have woven tales back and forth in time and place. My narrators cannot be trusted, I know that, and I expect my readers to suspend their belief as they read my weave. Or follow their disbelief, at least. I am never sure which is which, who is who, or when is when. Not any more.

But my close readers – and I hope that I have some readers who have threaded their way alongside me (more correctly, trailing behind me following Hansel’s trail into the forest) through more than one of my tales – I hope some readers have wondered about a character, or a moment, and pondered – is that true? Did that really happen? Was she real? Did he actually do that?

In some cases, clearly not; but in other moments, perhaps? Life is a collection of moments, joined by the long spaces in between. These stories are like that, a collection of moments, recollected.

This is a recount of some of my most precious moments, which just happened to string together into coherence and wonder, and the magic held itself together for a week or two. Which makes it strong magic indeed, to bind two people together like that, when all it would take to break the spell was to walk another way, or to walk slower, or to walk faster, or not even to walk at all.

The spell could only hold because both of us did what we did, when we did it. Perhaps magic is like the tango. It takes two to do it.

In this story, as in its Part One and all its parts, all I can say is, these events actually happened as I have written them. Astute readers may be able to figure out the geography and the place, and perhaps even the time, because I have not been able to alter those things.

–ooo OOO ooo —

Here I insert a quick editorial note: based on what I have written so far in Part One and now Parts Two and Three – two unexpected new Parts, as two women ghosted themselves into this story, each demanding equal time (and who am I to deny them that?). Because of their presence, however, I won’t get to the vital heart of this story until Part Four.

What do magicians call it? The reveal? I don’t know, I’m not a magician. I got caught in someone else’s spell, I don’t conjure my own.

— ooo OOO ooo —

There are only two people on this planet who would recognise every moment in the fourth part of this story.

One of them is me, A, the other is the woman who is the centre of this telling, B. She is not called B in the story. But it is her. Oh yes, it is B. It couldn’t be anyone else.

A Starzbet few people know fragments of B from my point of view – but I have no idea if she ever told any of her friends about us. She might have – women talk more to women than men ever talk to men. I have only told a few women about her, because I trust women (most women, anyway). I find men too unreliable, like my narrators, like me.

I have since discovered (the internet is a wonderful thing) that B has a far longer tell of stories from her people than I ever knew at the time. Perhaps it is her weave that explains all this, perhaps it is her tale, not mine.

But of course, it is our tale. I have remembered it, I wonder every day if she does too. I would like to think so, but I don’t know if she does. She is in my heart and in my head, but she is not with me now.

I wrote, once, that I didn’t know if she was my fallen angel or a devil rising. I think she may be both. If it is her spell, then B is my witch and I am Merlin, trapped in her tree.

But this is possibly the longest preamble on Lit, and I will have lost already those who do not wonder. Probably best that way, for there is no wham bam, thank you ma’am here. Just a gentle eroticism, I hope. My hope. Wondrous things happen slowly, I have found, and sometimes it just takes time to get there. I have to wait.

I have all the time in the world now – the rest of my life. That should be enough. Things happen, and things happen strangely.

If I have made you wonder, please, take your time reading this. I hope my conjure is enough to show that truth is indeed stranger than fiction. It’s my truth, anyway – you will have to decide for yourself what you think – and if you like, let me know what you decide. It will not matter to me – I know my truths.

Welcome to my wonder. It’s a simple one, really, because it’s about a man and a woman.

— ooo OOO ooo —

The thing about an extraordinary coincidence is that you have to consider all of the events leading up to that particular moment in time, and you have to wonder about all of the “what ifs” that might surround those events.

You have to pause and think, what if some tiny detail changed? Would the next series of events in that person’s life happen in the same way, or in such a similar way that there was no substantive difference in the outcome?

If tiny things changed, and there were enough of them, would you get to the same place at the same time? It’s pretty unlikely, I should think.

And if the coincidence involved two people converging on that same moment, you have to consider what might have happened, or not happened, or happened differently, in that other person’s life as well. So the chances of two people (who were once connected) being in the same place at the same time, nine years on, are even less likely? I would think so.

You somehow have to work out the odds of this or that happening, the likelihood of events occurring or not occurring, and do the maths. I think you come up with astronomically huge numbers very quickly, numbers which represent the likelihood (or not) of a particular sequence of events occurring. Generally speaking, I think the odds would be against you. Put it this way, if you were a betting man or woman, you wouldn’t bet on it.

If there are two people involved, those astronomically huge numbers at least double. And if there are a number of years between a first event and the second, coincidental event, then it seems to me that the likelihood of that particular thing happening, where those two people coincide, would become even more remote every day that passes. The maths is simply stacked against you.

And if you take your time factor down to the smallest increment of time required for the particular event to take place – let’s say the amount of time needed to walk across a small square in the middle of a suburban shopping centre, and then turn left or right such that you can no longer be seen from the other side of the square – the maths gives you even larger numbers. The odds are stacking really high against your coincidence, now.

Let’s say thirty seconds, forty-five at most, if you are walking slowly and window shopping. It’s not a big square, and there aren’t many shops on each side. It’s quite crowded with people though, so it’s not easy to see clearly to the other side of the square.

And if the second person in this coincidental moment is walking straight towards you from the opposite side of the square, then it is clear that the smallest time increment is half what you previously thought, because your closing speed is now twice what it was. She is walking too.

So we are considering the likelihood of two people being on opposite sides of the same small suburban shopping centre, within the same fifteen – twenty second period in their lives, after a gap of nine years.

By my maths, even if you take the simplest equation available for this scenario, which is the likelihood of being Starzbet Giriş in the same twenty second period within a longer nine year period, that likelihood is one in 14,319,840. Give or take several tens of thousands, because the starting point could be anywhere in a six week period nine years ago, and the end time could be any day at all. It could be yesterday, it could be tomorrow.

It’s not going to happen, is it?

— ooo OOO ooo —

After I finished my three years at university, I stayed in the same city. I had grown to like it, it was big enough for me. I had no desire for a bigger place.

I rented a house out in the suburbs, and in the first year lived there with my girlfriend and a friend from uni. They were both two years below me. She was a girl with pre-Raphaelite hair, lustrous long and brown, thick waves cascading to her waist. He was an academic son, like me.

He is mentioned in this telling only because he brought a big “what if” into the thread that is building here. Let’s say the first but by no means the last.

What if he had not betrayed me by taking Rosemary from under my nose, and I did not know until I discovered them later? Even then, I did not believe it. At first. Then I did, because she confessed. Anything like that is a big life changer, wouldn’t you say? Not a tiny thing, a betrayal. You might leave town, after a betrayal.

But this isn’t about those two, so he gets no further mention. Except to say that he was a good friend but a friendship that ended badly, but I don’t blame him or hold a grudge now. What’s the point of that? Besides, he contributed to the mathematics of my coincidence, so I cannot do without him, not really.

But Rosemary deserves a further mention, because in the end I was with her for just over seven years, so a significant other in any person’s life. By rights (by writes) she really deserves her own story or stories. She does appear “In The Library” several times in one shape or another, but it’s not quite the same. I should do her the honour, one day. Maybe.

But Rosemary’s “what ifs” are important for this story. Essential, even.

What if she was not on a long holiday of her own for a month or two, and had not let Cathy stay in the house for a while? That’s two big life changers, right there. This coincidence is getting less and less likely, every sentence I write, n’est ce pas?

Rosemary had known me at school (the world is a very small place, I keep finding) and I remember seeing her and her skinny friend with equally long hair, out on the asphalt. Always together. I didn’t know either of them, not then, but it turned out Rosemary knew me, and had touched my hand once, as a dare. Did she follow me to that college hall? I don’t know. Possibly, maybe; but without doubt, her choices are very much a part of my tapestry.

I think I will pause in my tale for Rosie, because just over seven years is a long time, and a lot of it was good, very good, and my memory is kind.

Besides, I’m a writer on Lit, and you’ve been a very patient reader so far. You’ve indulged me too much, and will need to indulge me again, I’m sure. So here’s a little vignette for you, in payment for your kindness, your patience, and your curiosity.

Here’s a taste of Rosie.

— ooo OOO ooo —

Taste her. Scent her.

We are in a small college room, mine or hers, it doesn’t matter, they both have identical layouts. It’s morning and I always wake before Rosie, rolling out of the single bed so as not to disturb her sleeping.

I wrap a towel around my waist, pressing my piss hard-on to my side and wrapping it tight. This is a necessary art in the hall, as the amenities are in the middle of each block with a ten metre scurry down the corridor. The towels are too small, really, and tall girls can never wrap their bodies safely. Small girls can, but often there is a lovely flash of bum cheek curved and pale, a darkness flickering between quick thighs.

After my morning piss my cock is still full, not hard but a satisfying heft. Rosie likes my morning cock, and we have a wake-up routine that is enticing. I climb back into the bed and wrap my body behind hers, my cock filling and firming in the crack of her ass, and I slip one arm under her neck and take one of her outstretched hands in my hand, stretching her arm out and linking my fingers through hers.

My other hand curls over her waist and finds itself on a soft breast, and takes the weight of that breast in its palm. Rosie is about five seven, a curvy girl, and her torso is long and her breasts full and heavy. I never know what inches and cup sizes ever mean, but when I hold both her breasts in my hands they are a satisfying weight, and Rosie likes it when I take their weight. She would prefer smaller breasts, Rosie, because she doesn’t really like bras, but always needs one during the day.

In the mornings, when she is still sleepy, Rosie likes me to press her breasts hard against her chest, as Starzbet Güncel Giriş it relieves the ache from their weight. I don’t mind the fullness of her breasts – they enclose my erect cock nicely when she presses her tits around my shaft.

Our morning routine, though, is a simple one. I tweak and pull on her nipple until it hardens and tightens, and then I know Rosie is awake. But she doesn’t open her eyes or show that she is awake, not just yet.

It is our conceit that she pretends to be asleep still, but her nipple betrays the pretense, and I only pretend to gently twist and tug on it, so it stands high and full against the soft mound of her breast. She pretends to be asleep, and I pretend to wake her. I might still be dreaming.

I slowly move my hand between her legs, caressing the palm of my hand over the mound of her triangle and running my fingers down between the spreading lips of her sex. Rosie still pretends to be asleep, and she must be dreaming, for she slowly moves her thighs wider, making an easier opening for my fingers into the outer petals of her cunt.

Now my cock is hard against the crack of her ass, and the shaft is shifting between her opening thighs, and then she rolls just a little and my shaft is trapped between her soft thighs and our heat is together. I feel her fingers grip my outstretched hand, and she stretches like a cat. Rosie has a way of stretching her whole body, just like a waking cat, and her thighs clench around my heated shaft.

“Good morning, Rosemary, how are you this morning?”

It’s always a formality and a game, in this first year when we are fresh and young.

“I am well, dear Alex,” she returns the formality, “but there is a strange heat between my legs.”

“Best we cool it, then.”

And with a sudden movement, she is on her back and her knees high and her thighs wide, and I am between her legs, my cock resting on her belly, the hair of my balls mingling with the hair around her cunt lips, the slight coolness of my swollen sacs pressing against her wettening slippery slit.

Rosie likes to see me with my weight on my elbows, my chest high above hers so that she can reach up her hand and splay her fingers wide over my heart, and our eyes sink into each other’s souls. I fall into Rosie’s speckled green eyes, ringed with gold.

With her other hand Rosie always tingles the end of her fore-finger over the rise of her clitoris, and scoops a slick of her juice up over her small shaft. She always gasps, a high intake of her breath, and then her fingers run down into the dark tangle of hair around her cunt, and she spreads herself, wet and wide.

Her fingers curl around my cock, and she presses the purpling head of my shaft between her lips, and places me poised there, ready to bear down into her in a single glide. Rosie’s morning fuck, her first morning fuck, is quick and efficient. She just wants my weight and length into herself, quickly, and in the mornings her cunt is already wet and grasping and foreplay is not really needed.

“Fuck me Alex, just fuck me, slide into me now.”

So I do. Rosie is so wet I slide straight and deep into her, the heat of my cock throbbing into her deepening cunt, and I press my weight onto her. One arm wraps around under her neck and I keep the weight of my chest off her breasts with my other arm, my elbow on the sheets.

This way, I look down onto her face, still puffy and red cheeked from her sleeping, and I delight as her eyes widen with each thrust. Her eyes always do it, they widen with each thrust, as if each deepening shaft is a surprise, something new. Rosie licks her lips, her red tongue a small tip between her lips, and her tongue is the same colour red as her clit when it rises between her cunt lips.

As my hips lengthen their thrust into her wide thighed groin, our tongues fuck into each other’s mouths, fiercely. Morning is no time to be gentle, we have found, and our first fuck is fast and quickly rising, and both of us grunt faster with our exertion.

“Unghhh,” my deeper voice is echoed by her higher cry, “ahh uh oh, oh oh,” and we thrust and grunt like primal animals. There is no subtlety or grace here, both of us just want a quick, fierce, morning come. Rosie clenches my ass cheeks in her hands, and our tongues fuck fast into our mouths, and my first spasm is met by a tight clench of her hot cunt.

“Oh fuck yes, Alex, fuck your hot come into me now, push that long cock into my cunt, oh fuck, yes, yes, yes, oh fuck yes, ahh, now.”

And her orgasm peaks and pulls and sucks mine into her, and with my back arched above her the seed from deep in my spine shoots its wet heat into her, pulsing and pumping into her wetness and heat, and I collapse my weight onto her, a slick of sweat hot on my chest.

“Ah me, I like that first hot prick of the day, oh yes. God, that was hot, your cock inside me, so fucking hot. What a way to wake up.”

Yes indeed, what a lovely wake up fuck. And because I am young, Priapus, it is not long before I am hard and wanting to come again.

And now there is so much wetness dripping from her cunt, with my cream and her juice, that I have another delight for Rosie, which she loves every three or four weeks or so, oh yes.

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