I LOVE YOU TOO (standard:drama, 4057 words)
Author: anonymous	Added: Jun 14 2007	Views/Reads: 3120/2016	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Two couples, quandaries, and one man's lust for his wife's sister.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

like this makes me want to pause time.  Cerene is wearing fitted blue 
jeans, halter top, her favorite red beret, and running shoes, even 
though she has no plans to go running today.  She takes my hand, and 
with the other presses the doorbell. 

Paul opens the door.  Paul is a big guy – six four, all muscle, with a
booming voice that I never thought he used to its full potential.  He 
looks nothing like a military man at the moment – a couple day's old 
stubble, sweatshirt, slacks, and moccasin.  I've mentioned to him 
before that he could make some serious cash doing voice-over work.  I 
could get him in touch with some people.  “I don't like talking that 
much,” he'd say.  Another attribute I respect in him. 

He scoops up Cerene's five-seven frame in a swoop and kisses her on the
cheek.  “It's so good to see you,” she says.  This is the first time 
she's seeing him since his going away party.  I shake his immense hand. 
We go inside. 

Cerene calls out for her sister then follows her voice toward the
kitchen. 

“I have a cooler with beer in the den,” says Paul.  Marcine is in the
kitchen preparing brunch.  Later we're going to a forest preserve that 
Paul knows about and most other people don't, and Cerene has sandwiches 
packed for the afternoon.  For dinner we have reservations at a Greek 
restaurant downtown. 

The ice in the cooler grumbles and readjusts as Paul pulls out two
Coronas.  The TV is on and muted.  Football teams I have no clue about 
are going at each other.  Paul is a former high school athlete, 
football and baseball, and I can tell he'd love nothing but to talk 
sports right now.  I have pretty much zero to offer him on that end.  
He mentions something about neither one of the teams on TV having a 
chance at playoffs. 

Laughter comes from the direction of the kitchen.  I want to see
Marcine, say hello.  But I wait.  I get another beer. 

“You working on anything?” Paul asks. 

“A new play.  And a novel.  Other than that, still looking to get an
agent and get things going.” 

“Good.  That's good.  I wish I could write.” 

“You probably have some good stories.  Just sit down and put them down
as they come to you.” 

“Yeah, I guess I could.  I'll tell you though.  I'm not one of those
people that's going to write about war and how awful it is.  It's war.  
Awful is all it can be.” 

We're having our meal – barbeque baked chicken and spinach and feta
cheese stuffed omelets – with Marcine next to me, Cerene across, and 
Paul next to Cerene.  Marcine is wearing denim shorts, t-shirt, and 
flip flops.  Her thick black hair is in a ponytail.  The three beers I 
downed on an empty stomach have me famished.  I'm gobbling omelets and 
chicken breast when Marcine announces: “We're trying to get pregnant.” 
For a moment everything enters slow motion.  Then pause. 

A lawnmower moans and revs outside. 

I can hear the ticking second hand of my watch. 

The moment starts moving again. 

Cerene is equally surprised as me.  My mouth has stopped in mid-motion. 
My throat and stomach have suddenly barred any further passage of food. 


“You didn't say anything,” Cerene says. 

“I wanted to wait till we were all together,” Marcine replies. Paul's
eyes are focused on his plate.  He is holding both knife and fork and 
looking at his food, like a doctor about to perform surgery. 

“Mar, that's great!” Cerene springs from her seat and gives Marcine a
hug. 

“Congratulations,” I say.  Marcine gives me a megawatt smile.  I give
her a peck on the cheek.  “Congratulations,” I repeat to Paul. 

“Thanks,” he says.  “Guess a toast is in order.”  He excuses himself. 

“You just might become an uncle sooner than you thought,” Marcine tells
me patting my forearm. 

Her face becomes serious.  “Now is the time to try,” she says to Cerene.
 Cerene is back in her seat.  She's chasing a few slivers of chicken 
with her fork.  “Doesn't look like Paul will be sent on tour again.” 

“What if he is?” Cerene asks. 

“Now is the best time,” Marcine feels the need to reaffirm. 

“I think it's a great idea,” I add.  “If you're ready, you're ready.” 

Paul is back with the beers.  Three. 

“Where's mine?” Marcine says when he sets down the beers.  “I'm not
pregnant yet.  I want a beer.” 

The more I think about Marcine in “the act” with another man (yes, this
man happens to be her husband who has a name, a name that I know very 
well) going through the motions, trying to get pregnant, the more I 
want to shut off my mind – or – change all of our lives with admission, 
a few syllables, a series of phrases lined up next to one another that 
will deconstruct four lives by the end of its utterance. 

Admit what, though? Nothing has happened.  No guilt to be reckoned with,
no fights to be had, let's just keep going as we are, thank you. It's 
lust.  That much I admit without ado.  Love, adoration, desire for her 
in other ways, ways in which I truly have desire for my wife, I'm not 
confident those levels exist.  In fact, if you were to ask me if I see 
a life with Marcine I'd say no.  She can be gratingly condescending, 
doesn't always get my sense of humor (a fact never lost on my wife no 
matter her mood,) is religious and attends services every week, and may 
very well be Republican.  I prefer not to touch certain subjects with 
any one, regardless of comfort or rapport.  Marcine and I have had long 
talks about music and poetry and history and art.  As a couple there 
would sit between us too many inconsistencies beyond the reaches of 
heart-to-heart talks, honesty, and compromise; and poetry and history 
and art. The only big saving grace could be our love for travel.  And 
maybe bedroom habits.  If Marcine could be half as uninhibited as her 
sister, we could conceivably have some fun without needing to speak all 
that much. 

This is how it got started, more or less: my increasing curiosities
about Marcine's sexual tendencies.  It wasn't out of anything any more 
obvious than the sun coming up or the Cubs never again winning a 
pennant.  I never had, nor do I now have any feelings for her.  This 
attraction is very sudden.  I cannot recall the source of it, but 
suffice it to say it's begun and has been there at a fixed fantasy 
gauge ever since. 

I surmised because of the religion thing she would be very “by the
book.”  Paul and I had never come close to discussions involving carnal 
scenarios – we barely talked about much of any one thing – but one man 
to another, I truly hoped Marcine allowed him the occasional variety 
from the missionary and didn't cringe at the possibility of oral sex.  
Similarly, I wondered if all those pent up principles made a reversal 
and went for broke behind closed doors.  Pretty basic man-fantasy 
stuff.  Was she a freak in the sack? 

The only disclaimer being something inside me is beginning to have a
problem.  With her being with another man – yes! yes! I know it's her 
husband she's with.  Which is exactly why, excepting a slew of the 
obvious, I'm calling it a problem. 

The man is right next to me.  His large hands are on the leather wheel
of their Durango and we're cruising at a steady fifty toward Paul's 
pick of forest preserve.  Cerene and Marcine are in the back.  No one 
is saying anything specific, no particular conversations have 
enthralled the air inside the truck yet.  The radio is on, I imagine to 
the same game Paul had on back at the house.  I think I never want to 
shake his hand again. 

“Where is this place?” Marcine asks, sounding creepily like a child. 

“McHenry,” answers Paul. 

“That's like another hour away.” 

“No it isn't.  Did you want to have a picnic in our backyard instead?” 

“No, smartass.  I'm just saying, it's a beautiful day and I'd like to
enjoy some of it outside the car.” 

“We'll be there in no time.” 

It took me a long time, all of my twenties give or take, to incorporate
assertiveness into my personality.  Therefore I admire it in others.  
All those years I used to blur the line between standing my ground and 
rudeness.  There was also the appeasement issue.  “No,” I've come to 
learn, has the power of being just as liberating as its literal 
negative intent is sometimes all too useful.  And having a spine is 
actually attractive to women. 

Paul's voice didn't rise any higher than if he was giving me an answer
to a few banal question I'd asked him about the military.  He addressed 
his wife honestly and with respect, while upholding his own decision, 
and narrowing further room for dispute or rearrangement of the day's 
plans. 

Twenty more minutes pass in silence.  Paul has given up on his team and
thinks it a waste of time to listen to the game any longer.  At 
Cerene's request he hits the SEEK button, making the black digits 
scramble like a countdown clock until they hit upon XRT93.1.  Cerene is 
doubly happy that the timing has perfectly matched with the beginning 
of “Yellow” by Coldplay.  For the first minute or so she hums and semi 
sings along.  We listen to the entire song in silence.  When it ends 
the station launches into its interminably painful due to its sponsors. 
Marcine reaches over and switches it off. 

“That beer's catching up with me,” she says.  “Can we stop at the next
gas station or restaurant?”  She kisses Paul on the neck, “Pleeease?” 

“Me too,” Cerene adds. 

We pull into a Citgo a few minutes later.  Marcine and Cerene zip out of
the car as if just released from house arrest.  Paul fills up on gas, 
and we both watch the gallons and the dollars rise disproportionately. 

“This here is the worst thing about war,” says Paul clicking the last
few drops into his tank that his money can still buy.  “The wrong 
people get rich and idiots like us pay for their fantasies.” 

I wonder again what makes him think he can't write. 

“What in god's name is someone thinking talking about bringing kids into
this madness?” 

I have no idea what to say to this, especially in light of the brunch
announcement.  Paul is done pumping gas and leaning against the driver 
side door.  I'm taking aimless steps back and forth a few feet away.  I 
look over and see Marcine's and Cerene's heads moving in and out of the 
aisles, stopping, then moving again.  Getting ready to go out, making 
pit stops with Cerene are a true test of patience.  I don't have to be 
with Marcine to know it's the same with her. 

“Shit!” Paul clenches between his teeth.  “This is the worst time for
this to be happening.  I just can't take it.  Not right now.” 

“Have you talked to her?” 

“It's not simple.  She has her concerns and I understand them.  I know
she can't have kids forever.  Anything I even think along those lines 
makes her cry.  I could be sent off again.” 

“I thought you're done.  That's what Marcine said.” 

“No.  That's what Marcine wants, and that's what she likes to tell
herself and everyone else.” 

“Tell her the truth.” 

“About what? She'll get upset and insist that I ‘quit the military' as
she puts it.  And then what? What about the mortgage? The car? This 
baby that she wants? Where's all that money going to come from? See 
what I mean? It'll be a mess.” 

Setting aside for a moment the absence of my faith in higher powers,
disregard for religion, and general skepticism toward prayer, this is 
one of the moments, had I been pious, for which I would be tossed into 
the raging fires of hell.  My brother-in-law is confiding in me, 
telling me about this life-altering quandary – which from another 
perspective can be seen as a cry for help to someone he thinks he can 
trust – and my desire to want to sleep with his wife is as overpowering 
as it has been since inception. 

I want to suggest that he continue on with Cerene to the forest
preserve, while Marcine and I take a cab back to their home, and I 
reveal to her Paul's troubled state.  This in turn upsets her and she 
opens up to me.  A few drinks get in our bloodstreams.  By virtue of 
the tenuousness of the moment, the manipulative bastard that I'm 
hearing inside my head is a walking moral wasteland sniffing the edges 
of Marcine's vulnerability, waiting for the moment of her abandon.  I 
swear, none of this is meant to be lame or 
bad-movie-cheesy-excuse-for-gratuitous-forbidden-love-scene.  This is 
really unfolding in my brain, and I'm really really trying to kill it. 

“I'm sorry, man.  I didn't mean to freak you out.” 

“No problem.  If you want to talk.  You know.” 

“Yeah.  Thanks.  I appreciate that.” 

Forty minutes later we arrive at the forest preserve.  I've not been to
this part of the – are we still in what could be termed the Chicagoland 
area? – state.  It's a blend of suburb, small town, and farmland.  It's 
miles away from constant sounds of urban life – vehicle engines, 
sirens, honking horns, people.  Houses are placed with enough space 
between them to build two more houses, in other words my head wouldn't 
be inside my neighbor's bedroom if I opened a window and looked out.  I 
could stand being here at the most a week – and that would be too long. 


A dirt path through the preserves allows the Durango to be maneuvered
all the way to the site which Paul decides to be our grounds.  There 
are wooden benches strewn throughout.  Cerene's lunch basket, Paul's 
cooler, three bags of potato chips, a couple of boxes of granola bars, 
bottles of water, soda, and Gatorade take over the table nearest us.  
Paul keeps the Durango turned on so the radio can keep going.  He's not 
happy that he's forgotten to bring the portable stereo, but gets over 
it. 

After we settle in and have a round of beers Cerene wants to go for a
walk.  I think this is a good idea.  Paul and Marcine need some time 
alone today.  Maybe he'll talk to her, maybe he won't, but he's in that 
zone and possibilities remain. 

If you think about it, I should have some things to say to Cerene too. 
Nothing as fragile as what Paul might have to tackle.  Mine can be kept 
shut for as long as we're both alive and it wouldn't matter.  There 
will be a day that I'm over this sophomoric lust for my wife's sister 
and I look forward to shaking my head and laughing out loud about it.  
I'm okay with “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” compliance. 

Cerene and I take a beer each and set off.  Several moments pass as we
figure out a path to take and then settle into that path.  Cerene is 
usually a fast walker, but now her stride is carrying the burden of 
more than just her physical weight. 

“What's the matter, Adam?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You're quiet.” 

“Nothing.  I'm just, you know...I'm just enjoying the day.” 

“You don't look like you are.” 

“Well, I am.” 

“Is there a reason why you've stopped wanting to make love to me?” 

“No.” 

“Okay...so you just haven't been in the mood?” 

“It's not that.” 

“You can't be having an affair, I know you too well to think that.” 

“I'm not having an affair.  We're still newlyweds, aren't we?” 

“That doesn't stop affairs from happening.” 

“I don't want to be with anyone else, okay? You're the one.” 

We walk along in silence for several minutes.  I feel warm and
overdressed in corduroys and sweatshirt. 

“Not even Marcine?” 

“What? Where's that coming from?” 

“I don't know...just a thought.” 

“I don't even know what to say to that.  Why would you think something
like that?” 

“No reason.  Just a thought.  Just a stupid thought.  Sorry.” 

“They're trying to have children.  Now would not be the time for either
of them to be sleeping with anyone else but each other.” 

She hasn't touched her beer beyond a sip and hands it to me.  I'm
thankful for this.  I don't know how much longer my nerves can endure 
her woman's intuition. 

“Why would you even think of that?” I ask. 

“No reason.  I don't know.  It just came to me.  I've never thought
about it before, ever.  I know you like her.  But that's normal.  She's 
my sister.  It's the same as me liking Paul.  It's how it's supposed to 
be.”  She pauses for a moment, and I can tell a new strain of thought 
is formulating.  “Would you do it though? If she wanted I it too, of 
course.” 

“Cerene, come on...I...that's a ridiculous question.” 

“Okay.  If she wasn't my sister.” 

“I don't know...I can't think like that because she is your sister.  Do
you want to sleep with Paul?” 

“No.  I'm not attracted to him.  He's too big and too quiet.  And he can
be passive aggressive.” 

“Well, Marcine is too religious and self-righteous.” 

“You can still be physically attracted to her.” 

“I'm not.  So let's stop talking about this any more.” We've found a
grassy spot about a hundred yards from a creek.  This could be the most 
secluded part of the preserves.  I haven't heard a bird or cricket or 
anything besides the gurgle of the creek since we got here.  Cerene is 
lying on her back, embracing sunrays with her face, eyes closed.  I'm 
sitting next to her wishing I had another beer. “Lie down,” she says 
placing a hand on my back.  I do, and Cerene covers the sky with her 
face.  I close my eyes and Marcine emerges on the screen behind my 
eyelids. 

“We were about to call a search party on you,” Marcine says when we
return.  “Didn't you hear your phone?” 

“The battery's dead,” says Cerene.  “We were just hanging out.  Found a
nice little spot.” 

Marcine gives us both a knowing grin.  I involuntarily run a hand over
my fly.  Things are zipped and in order.  Thank goodness. 

“Where's Paul?” I ask. 

“Went for a walk.  I can't tell what it is.  Anyway, he likes taking
walks by himself.  Every moment he thinks he'll be sent on duty again.  
Me telling him it's not going to happen isn't enough.  Anyway, he just 
needed to think for a while and be by himself.  I've just been 
reading.” 

With food, drink, and variant degrees of emotional coma the ride back
passes in complete silence. 

Back at Marcine and Paul's we switch vehicles and belongings and
exchange goodbyes in the driveway.  Dinner plans in fact have been 
postponed.  None of us are too keen on it, at least for tonight, so 
that when Paul mentions it between hugs and “take cares” the strength 
of our collective enthusiasm is just enough to erase it from the 
evening's agenda. 

“I love you,” Marcine tells Cerene during a long embrace. 

“I love you too.” 

I imagine Paul and Marcine will make attempts again tonight, and
tomorrow night, and the night after, to plant the seeds of parenthood.  
I hope Paul speaks his mind and heart to her.  He's a good man.  I know 
Marcine knows this, but people need to be reminded every so often.  Not 
to sound self-righteous here myself.  Cerene, likewise, is very good to 
me.  She's an amazing and considerate lover, a partner without judgment 
in all things, and she truly loves me.  And I need to remind myself of 
this.  I don't want to think about this any more.  This is a fantasy.  
Marriage is real.  This is not. 

“I'd still like to go for dinner,” Cerene says. 

“Me too.” 

“Maybe a late movie?” 

“That sounds great.” 

“Sorry about what I said before.  About Marcine.” 

“That's alright.  I'd be lying if I said I don't wonder if you think of
other men.  I don't know that if I had a brother I'd think of you with 
him...but.” 

“I guess it's kinda normal.” 

“I guess so.” 


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