Pink Pages are the Rewrites

As Abby walked down the hall to her own room, she tried to remember which boy she'd told to meet her in her bedroom. Larry? Barry? Was there a Barry? It would have been easy to say it was old age, but the truth was that she'd rarely paid any attention to her partners, calling them all 'sweetheart' or 'darling' or 'honey' unless Oliver wanted her to call them by name specifically.

It didn't really matter which boy it was. She just remembered that she'd picked the first one because he should be fully recovered by now and ready to go again.

She opened her door. The first thing she noticed was that all 12 monitors were live and running. It gave the room a bluish cast that would have been eerie if it didn't remind her of Oliver so much. He loved sex — watching it, producing it, performing it. If the smut industry hadn't existed, Oliver would have had to invent it. The screens all showed empty rooms. But, through out the evening, each one must have had it's own special show.

There was a boy, sitting on her bed. But not the one she expected.

It was Martin.

Abby closed the door behind her. Her heart was racing. Was he here to give in to the passion around them? Or was it to try and shame her with her actions. She wasn't sure which and stayed by the door waiting for him to speak.

"Are you finished?" He asked quietly.

"Yes." She answered softly.

"Was that what you wanted?"

"Yes." Mostly.

"Why?"

It wasn't the question she expected. She crossed the room and sat on the bed beside him. "I'm a woman. I mean, I'm many things — a mother, a neighbor, a church member. But before all that, I'm a woman. I want to be held, and cherished, and desired. Loved. For a moment — for tonight — your friends made me feel loved."

"You are loved. We love you."

She smiled softly. "Not like Oliver did." She took his hand in hers. "Oh, I know your mother and Richard love me. I don't doubt that one bit. But they love me as my children. Not as a lover. I need a lover, Martin."

"Gran ... Ma — " He shook his head.

"I want a lover, Martin." She kissed his hand softly. "One that touches me. And holds me. Kisses me."

"You should want someone who cares about you."

"Oh, I want that too." Was he breathing hard or was that her fertile imagination. "I want someone to love and make love to me. And occasionally, fuck me." He flinched at the word but didn't pull away from her. "That's what happened tonight, you understand, Martin. Your friends fucked me." She placed his hand on the knot holding the towel in place around her. "But I wish someone was here to make love to me."

Martin stared at her. He looked deeply into Abby's eyes and for a moment, she could see a war behind them. He was struggling, torn by desire and morality.

And then, almost as if by magic, it seemed as if his lips were closer to hers. She hadn't felt him move and didn't recall moving herself but they seemed closer, much closer. Almost touching hers.