Eliza felt like her own doppelgänger. In the mirror she saw herself sitting beside Oscar, but her hand was in Rafe’s as he kissed it. In the mirror was who she would have been if she was with Oscar, but her hand was in her husband’s as it should be.
Rafe nodded at Oscar.
“I thought you might need me,” Rafe said, taking off his jacket. He picked up the container with noodles and started to prepare a plate for himself, when Eliza softly took it from his hands and made him a plate. She could see that she had pleased him, like in the Sharon Olds’ poem.
He was primitive with her later in bed, and she knew it was a combination of their desire and him wanting to be possessive. She was his, she always would be. How many times had she tried to leave him, only to end up married to him?
She remembered who she was the night that she met Oscar. She was an overwhelmed fiancee—not to say that what she had had with Oscar had not been real.It had been.
But being overwhelmed as a bride did not mean she did not love Rafe anymore. Together or apart, they always had a connection like water turned to blood. She could not imagine life without him—she did not want to imagine life without him. Feeling the heat of his gaze on her, she looked at him in the dark. He did not say anything—he did not have to. The woman on this side of the mirror was his, and there was nothing that needed to be said to solidify that anymore.
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Beautiful!
Rebel xox
thank you Marie!!!
Very lovely, my dear.
thank you!!!☺️