My Wife is No Longer My Lover Ch. 04

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There are no characters under the age of 18-years-old in this story.

My Wife Is No Longer My Lover, Ch. 04

Sometimes not a good place to be, home alone with John.

Continued from Chapter 03:

Yet, if she knew her retirement would be like this, so empty and so boring, she would have better financially planned for her golden years. Only, with her retirement years always seemingly so very far away and never seeming real, there was always a real need for whatever money they saved to spend now instead of saving for later. Not that they were poor, they weren't; they were comfortable. Yet, she would have loved to have had the money enough to travel and to cruise the world. At least she had her memories of her wild and sexy promiscuous days. She was glad that she had some fun sowing her wild, sexual oats when she was younger.

Still instead of or in addition to just reading about other countries, she would have loved to have gone to all the faraway places she read about in her books, Africa, Asia, New Zealand, Iceland, Australia, even Alaska, and now Cuba. From foods, customs, and traditions, there were so very many places in the world that she would have liked to have visited and experienced. There were so very many things she would have enjoyed instead of just spending time in the backyard gardening and sitting at home reading.

She wished John was more adventurous but boringly content to stay at home too, he never caught the traveling bug. Besides, with him always so sadly depressed, he's not well. When he's not mentally depressed, always listlessly tired, he's not physically well. It takes whatever energy he had to run the errands and do the food shopping. She never liked shopping for food but he did. She suspected that he loved food shopping as his way of not only sneaking junk food in the house but also to leer at women. Giving him plenty of fodder for his masturbation, between down-blouse views and up-skirt peeks, women weren't always careful with their decorum, especially when food shopping at such an innocuous place as the supermarket.

Only, traveling to faraway places was much safer back then than it is now. Now with terrorism, terrorists, and airport security with drug dogs and police with automatic weapons, traveling now wasn't the same today as it was back then. Back then, as if they were attending a formal gathering, everyone dressed up to board a plane. Now, with no one having respect for anything, even the office of the president, people boarded the plane dressed like beach bums.

Even though she would have loved to travel, even with her an exhibitionist, nothing sexually stimulating about that, she would never dare bare to expose herself by walking through that invasive TSA X-ray machine. Moreover, with her now not very sexual, she could never allow a female, travel security agent pat her down and touch her in places that she hasn't allowed her husband to touch her in years. How dare they put people through that just to get on a plane? In violation of our rights of dignity and privacy, it's ridiculous and un-American to be forced to be so publicly violated.

Surely, there must be a better, less offensive, and less invasive way to check for weapons of mass destruction. Not only do they invade the privacy of every man and woman getting on a plane, they even pat down old women and children, as if they'd be a threat. Perhaps TSA should be more like the Post Office. Instead of checking every package before mailing it, the Post Office just asks what's in your package.

Then, there's the crowds waiting to get their boarding passes and the people hurrying from one gate to get to another gate for a flight that was cancelled. There's the long lines waiting to go through security. There's indirect flights with multiple stops, the frustrating inconveniences of being stuck waiting while the plane sits on the tarmac, and then there's the cancelled flights. God forbid anyone complains about the lack of customer service when flying the unfriendly skies, you'll be summarily dragged from the plane, beaten, arrested, and put on a no-fly list.

The horror of lost baggage is more of a reality now than ever before. The violation of baggage employees stealing personal possessions from suitcases pose more of a threat than terrorists and are more of a reality now than ever before. What used to be a pleasure when flying on a plane had morphed into a major nightmare of frustration, aggravation, and inconvenience.

Yet, even with her life as it is now, being retired and not working wasn't a bad life but it was a quiet, sedentary one. When doing the same things at the same time every day, quiet and sedentary quickly become boringly tedious and frustratingly tiring. A big adjustment from having to get washed, dressed, and doing her hair and makeup every day to face the public, now she was comfortable hanging around the house in her nightgown, bathrobe, and slippers until noon.

After working as a librarian for more than forty-five-years and interacting with all sorts of people, she enjoyed the tranquility of her new life. Other than her friends, neighbors, and family, if she never had to interact with another person again, she'd be happy. With the lunacy of the mad rush of people that flooded the library daily to ask stupid questions, content to stay at home and read, if she never had to go out again, she could do that too. If she never had to answer another dumb question or help a stranger find another book, she was okay with that.

Rather than the big things, it was the little things that made her happy now, such as a note she received in the mail from an old friend, a television show, or a movie that she looked forward to watching. After forty-five-years of working with the public in the library, she enjoyed going through a day without having to talk to anyone but to her husband, John. As if it was a rainy afternoon and she was sick in bed, not one for gossiping on the phone, she enjoyed spending every day reading instead of talking. Now with her having the time to work in her garden, she finally got to read all the books that she wanted to read.

Having built quite the personal library, she read J.K. Rowling, Ted Dekker, Michael Connelly, Harlan Coben, Brad Meltzer, Nate Kenyon, Dennis Lehane, Steve Berry, Stephen King, Catherine Coulter, Gillian Flynn, Brian Keene, John Grisham, and Dean Koontz. She read all the classics of literature too. She read everything by Shakespeare, Twain, Dickens, Poe, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Woolf, Austen, Tolstoy, Orwell, Melville, Chekhov, Christie, Conrad, Steinbeck, Morrison, Tolkien, Doyle, Eliot, James, Wilde, Verne, Hugo, Hawthorne, Shelley, Maugham, and Wharton, and dozens of other writers. Yet, romance novels were her favorite books to read. If only a time to pretend, romance novels moved her to where she wanted and needed to be to survive being married to John.

Only with her keeping her books to herself, as if every word was precious and expressly written just for her, cherishing every word, she didn't share what she read with her husband. Before he abandoned reading for watching TV, he used to ask her what she was reading but when she gave him evasive and non-descript answers, as if annoyed that he'd invade her privacy by asking, he stopped asking. Now, lost in her world of characters traveling the globe while having sexual affairs with mysterious men, she finally experienced all that she missed in her life by reading about it.

'Tick, tick, tick.'

Chapter 04:

Not the same person she was forty-five years ago, Kathy sat on the couch perfectly content while reading her book, the latest novel by one of her favorite, romance writers. Sometimes, but not very often, she missed her cat, Felix, an American, short haired feline that cuddled at the top of the couch or sat contently in her lap purring. Yet, after living his pampered life for 18-years, he had hopefully gone to a better place. Sometimes, but not nearly as much as she missed her cat, she missed her dog, Oscar, a Rat terrier, lying by feet. Because for his penchant for digging, after he made a hole in a cushion, he was no longer allowed on the furniture.

Unfortunately, as if missing his best friend, as soon as Felix died, Oscar died too. Unable to separate them in life and hopefully now joined together again in death, one seemed so lonely without the other. Now that she doesn't have a pet, if she had her druthers, with too much bother cleaning up after them, she'd never have another cat or dog.

She'd never forget the time a bat flew down the chimney and darted around the living room when they forgot to close the flue. Trapped like the flying rat that he was, unable to catch the thing and frustrated, the dog barked and chased the bat all over the house. Then, when the bat flew by the cat, as if he was playing a game of field hockey, just like that, not even moving from his perch on the couch, he raised his paw and killed it. She suddenly had a new admiration for the cat that she always had for and expected of the dog.

"What good was owning a Rat terrier if he couldn't catch and kill a bat. After all a bat was nothing more than a flying mouse," she said to her friends when bragging about the deadliness of her cat.

Yet, with her a librarian and an educated woman with an advance degree in Library Science, she knew better that a bat wasn't a flying rodent but a flying mammal, the only flying mammal in the world. She still remembered running around the house with a pillow over her head and screaming while John was trying to hit the thing with a broom. Laughing about it now, but horrified by it then, the sudden appearance of a bat flying in their house was the most fun they had in years.

Then, thinking that the bat had flown back up the chimney, it was gone until they saw the cat get it a few hours later when it flew from out of nowhere again. If nothing else, it gave her something to talk about to her friends and neighbors only to have to listen to their stories of giant spiders, raccoons, squirrels, snakes, and skunks. Still, even she had to admit, it was lonely without a dog and/or a cat following her around the house in demand of her attention.

They got Oscar three years after they adopted Felix. Felix the cat was an appropriate name for a cat when remembering the cartoon and the clock of Felix with a wagging tale and big, moving eyes from years ago. Kathy laughed whenever she thought of her cat's name. Yet, not named after the cartoon, at the time she adopted her cat, the 70's television show, The Odd Couple, with Tony Randall playing Felix and Jack Klugman playing Oscar was still fresh in her mind.

With her already owning a cat named Felix, what better name to give the stupid dog than Oscar. With Felix always so fussy and finicky, he reminded her of Tony Randall's character, Felix. With Oscar so loudly barking and so crazy running from window to window to bark, he reminded her of Jack Klugman's character, Oscar. Just as she couldn't remember her life before them, she never thought she'd have to live her life without them. As if the house belonged to the pets, the house seemed so quiet and so ungodly empty without them.

'Tick, tick, tick...'

Being that Felix the cat was there first, he was the pack leader. As was his daily ritual to keep Oscar in place, every time the dog mindlessly walked by the couch while sniffing the carpet for dropped crumbs, Felix would swat at his back and make the dog jump in fright. So funny to see, sometimes Felix would actually chase Oscar around the house for the fun of it.

Most times, they'd both go out in the fenced in backyard together and play or just sit and stare at one another. Once Oscar was outside, he imposed his inbred personality at the expense of the neighborhood. Territorial protective by barking and chasing away squirrels, he was aggressive to anything or anyone that dared walk by the house. In the way that she was content sitting on her couch and reading, Felix was content sitting while licking and washing himself.

Now that his best friend, Oscar was gone, her husband wanted to rescue another dog. In the way that Kathy loved cats, John loved dogs. Fortunately, she was able to convince her husband that at their age, it was too much of a hassle and even a hardship to walk the dog in the elements. She couldn't imagine having to walk another dog in the snow, the rain, the wind, and the heat of the day all over again. She couldn't imagine going out in the cold dampness, especially when her arthritis acted up again. She had suffered in silence too many years doing that with little complaint.

She'd be okay with another cat but John never liked cats and, obviously picking up on his dislike for them, cats didn't like him either. Even though she eventually adjusted to Oscar, it was a hard adjustment to make with him so active and energetic until the day he died, especially when compared to the cat. The truth was that she never liked dogs. Compared to cats, dogs were crazy, nasty, mean, and noisy. The big difference between the two, her dog was aggressive and cat was passive.

Yet, what worked for her pets, with one being passive and the other aggressive, didn't work for her. Seemingly odd that she preferred the passivity of the cat when in her sexual life, she'd much preferred an aggressive lover. Yet, when it came to pets instead of lovers, one had nothing to do with the other. Now that she was thinking of aggression, she wished John was more aggressive. With him asking her for sex and begging her for a blowjob, she wished he acted more like the dog than the cat. She wished he just took what he wanted and forced her to do what he needed her to do.

Dogs were too much trouble and demanded too much of her time and affection. Dogs needed to be walked and exercised, especially a high-energy breed like the Rat terrier. Dogs were like the village idiots always making fools of themselves while the cat would just sit there and sleep or watch the dog acting stupid. Moreover, she didn't even have to walk the cat or take the cat out to do his business. She just needed to clean his litter box.

Now, as if their home was an extension of the library, the house was so uncommonly quiet without the pets needing their attention for food, water, taking them outside, and playing toys with them. Sometimes Kathy would just sit there for hours listening to the quiet. Her house was now officially even quieter than the library. In comparison, the library wasn't quiet at all. There was always someone shuffling around, screeching chairs across the tile floor, and/or talking. Yet, here, it's just the grandfather clock ticking and chiming.

'Tick, tick, tick, tick...'

### Susan Jill Parker -- Tick, tick, tick, tick... ###

'Tick, tick, tick, tick...'

Sometimes the ticking of the grandfather clock was unnervingly annoying and other times she never heard the continual ticking. Reminding her of the time that past, she felt pressured to live her life to its fullest. With each tick, she was another second older. With each tick, she had one second less to live. With each tick and with her having lived a good life, compared to some of her friends with serious health issues, other than to have the time to read more books, do her gardening, and to travel, she had no regrets.

Now that much of her life was over, as if trying to slow time down by enjoying every, last second on Earth that she had, sometimes she concentrated too much on the ticking of the time that continually passed than the time she had now. Sometimes, but for the sexual excitement she had in her youth by having sex with so very many, random men, she now lived vicariously through her romance novels. Imagining herself as the main character, she loved reading books where the characters traveled to distant lands and unusual cities.

* * * * *

'Tick, tick, tick, tick...'

Keeping track of every second that ticked by, that infernal grandfather clock never stopped it's ticking countdown of her life. What was sometimes much worse than the ticking, especially if she was on the phone, trying to listen to the news, or having trouble concentrating while reading her book, was the infernal bonging sound at each quarter hour.

'Bong! Bong! Bong...'

Much like Chinese torture, the stupid clock played part of a musical song every fifteen minutes that grew longer until it reached the hour. Once the time passed 6 pm or 6 am, more annoyingly intrusive, the clocked bonged louder and longer. Fortunately, there was a switch that turned off the bonging but, unless she was to stop the pendulum from swinging, not the ticking. Besides, John didn't want her turning off his precious clock at night. He liked all the gonging, even late at night. He said turning the clock off disrupted the accuracy of the clock telling the correct time and forced him to have adjust the time every day.

"So? What's the big deal? Open the damn clock door and move the minute hand forward or back a couple of minutes," she said to him with a shrug.

Sometimes she wondered if he loved that clock more than he loved her. When he wasn't fussing with his clock, he was playing with the his damn dog. If she went by how much he played with that stupid dog, held him, pet him, rubbed him, massaged him, talked to him, cared for him, took him in the car, and walked him, he loved his dog more than he loved her. Ridiculous for her to be jealous of a grandfather's clock and/or of a dog but sometimes she was.

Now that the dog was dead, John always looked sad, much sadder than he ever looked before. He seemed lost without having to care for his dog, Oscar. He looked as sad and as lost when his best friend, Walter died. As if that dog was another one of their children, he loved that stupid animal. Tempted to allow him to get another dog, she just couldn't. She couldn't bear the elements to walk another dog early in the morning and/or late at night. All they needed to do was to slip and fall on black ice that they didn't see early in the morning or late at night.

'Tick, tick, tick, tick. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Tick, tick, tick, tick...'

Sometimes with all the ticking, she felt as if she lived in Neverland with Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, and Captain Hook. The only sounds that intruded on her thinking and disturbed her reading was the ticking of the idiotic grandfather's clock but now having grown used to it, most times she didn't even hear it, even when it bonged. Truth be told, happy with her grandmother's antique, mantle clock that musically chimed much softer and less intrusive, she never wanted a grandfather's clock but John was insistent on buying one. Something he seldom did, he seldom put his foot down and vehemently voiced his wants, needs, and/or opinions but a grandfather's clock was something that he wanted going back to when he was a child.

She wished he put his foot down about her giving him sex. She wished he'd put his foot down about wanting her to blow him. She wished he'd be as aggressive with her as he was in wanting sex, especially a blowjob, and as he acted over wanting to buy the stupid and intrusive grandfather's clock and that the big screen TV. If only he'd act more like a man than a wimp, she'd act more like a sexy, sexual woman than a cold, sexless bitch.

If only he'd strip off her clothes, tear them to shreds, she'd surrender her naked body to him. In the way of the rape scenes that she watched in movies, if only he forced her, she'd fuck him. If only he'd grab her by her hair and force her to her knees, she'd obediently suck him. Yet, too late for that now, something she never imagined would happen, done giving hand jobs and blowjobs, she was no longer interested in sex. Perhaps if he was someone else, anyone else, but he was the last man she wanted to masturbate and/or suck.