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lovelight

Gregory Nyman


��Laura had planned it all week. She’d fretted and fussed about what to wear, what to say, and how to please the man she loved. When the moment was just upon her, she lit the last candle and opened the champagne. It was supposed to be their evening, or at least that’s what he’d promised.
��The last time they’d been together, Michael had told her the days of lies and sneaking around were numbered. With his wife out of the picture and the divorce finalized, he’d planned on devoting all his time and energies to Laura and her needs. Little had he realized how much she’d secretly wanted the same thing.
��When her lover showed up two hours late, she displaced her anger and accepted his apologies graciously. It hadn’t mattered if the dinner had been cold, she’d said, just as long as they were together. They could even forego the meal and make up for it in bed. “Evening delight,” she’d whispered in his ear and kissed his neck.
��He tensed at her touch and she knew something was wrong. It was as vivid as the girls around her.

��Laura cried unashamedly when Michael told her it was over. It’d been her worst fear, and her hopes that it would never rear its head were dashed.
��He was supposed to have been everything his poetry said he was, she thought. He’d been her destiny, the one who was going to fill the gap of her loneliness and need. It was going to be...
��Something about guilt and marital vows, she heard him say, and with his wife surpringly pregnant, the divorce was off and reconciliation his major concern.
��“What about me,” she found herself whimpering, “what about - “
��“You?” he laughed cruelly. “Did you think we were going to play Barbie and Ken forever? I was never in this for the poetry. I just wanted to get laid.”
��Michael dismissed her like a gnat and his only good-bye had been the horrid smile she once thought was cute. It’d been like she’d never existed. As if all the hours of forbidden love had never happened.
��Had he gauged her emotional state with more sensitivity, Michael would’ve never turned his back on her, and he never would’ve been knocked cold when the bottle of champagne connected with the back of his head.

��When her twins emerged from the shower, Laura told them not to worry. Michael had just gotten a little excited and she had to calm him down. They were a younger version of their mother, and together, they easily tipped the scales at an even thousand.
��“We love you, Daddy,” they said to the figure on the floor, and with a nod from their mother, they spread him out on the floor.
��As much as he resisted, Michael couldn’t control the way his body responded to their touch. They took turns with him, but it wasn’t enough for the woman who watched with the bat in her hands. The whole reason for bringing him to this point was to ease the pain and her degradation at being used. Her memory wouldn’t let it rest. Years of misery and lies. Of lost dignity and games. It’d all added up to one thing - HURT - and she damned him to Hell.
��When Laura broke his ribs, she remembered his touch. When she pushed the bat through his chest, she remembered his lies. When he screamed, she knocked his teeth into the waiting hands of her daughters. She could’ve easily stuffed the bat up his ass, but instead, she stuck him with the carving knife and covered his body with parafin. The job of drilling a hole in his head was given to her two daughters.
��All in all, she thought, it had been a good night, and the romantic evening went on as planned. Asti Spumante, Chopin’s pianissimo, and the pleasure of good company by candelight.
��When Michael’s head melted half-way down his face, the combined smells of flesh and wax was overpowering, but once the potpourri simmered, Laura knew she salvaged something out of the relationship. While her lover burned, he’d not only light up her studio, but her life as well. Then she laughed and tipped her glass to the molten man.
��It had been their evening after all.





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