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Each spin and return, each beat of the drum, like life itself, we become more acquainted with each other. All others cease to exist as we dance thru the stars.When my hand touches your body, I can feel your submission. As my lips tenderly brush across yours, I savor the sweet moistness of your delicate lips. My fingertips dance teasingly upon the back of your neck just beneath your hairline as I gently guide you into a slow turn with the song. And like lovers, I pull you unto me, my body pressing to yours, my hands savoring the feel of your body as I use the music for my reason to run my hands from your shoulders to your ankles. And as I return upward, I let the music allow me to take my time as I enjoy feeling your gentle curves, making sure to make note of each place I touch your body, my lips teasing touch your spine as I lightly kiss your back.And the music forces us to move on. As I pull you close, you take advantage of the slow rhythm to wrap one leg around me, pulling yourself. Karen, my wife of eleven years, had told me to meet her at the Tumbleweed Inn at 3:00. I knew that the bar would be pretty much empty at that hour, and whatever it was she had to tell me would have little to do with partying with her. I didn't know how right I was.The TI was where she and I had met thirteen years before. I had a bad feeling. I had suspected that she was cheating on me with a coworker. I was afraid that this meeting would be where I got the news.There had been signs: late nights at the office where she was a secretary to the boss. Disinterest in sex, at least with me. New clothes, provocative clothes, in her closet—clothes she never wore around me. And, reduced—much reduced—interest in communicating with me. We hardly spoke even at meals, fewer and fewer of which she was ever even home for.During the past several months it had been mostly me and the kids eating and her coming in with some lame excuse and perhaps a dessert from the market for the children: Max 9 and.
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