She can’t explain her fascination with it.
She thought she’d psyched herself up for this, thought she knew what she was getting back into, but the first time she has a drink with him after the event, the silver band on his finger is like being punched in the stomach.
She’d known she’d have to give up sleepovers, impromptu dates, late night phone calls. She hadn’t considered that she’d have to give up looking at his hands.
She watches him lift his pint to his mouth, scratch his face, twirl a coaster between his fingers.
Any minute now, he’ll notice her staring.
In her bedroom, she can’t bear it. ‘Can you just –’ She stops. She doesn’t know what to ask him for. She can’t ask him to take it off, after all, although she knows that characters in novels do that sometimes, when they’re cheating.
He’s not cheating. He’s not cheating, and that is the problem.
‘Can I just…?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
The sex is as good as it always was. Marriage hasn’t changed his thick cock, the aftershave he wears, the way he kisses.
And then she has an idea.
‘Put your fingers in my mouth,’ she says. This is not new. She has always liked this.
When his fingers are in her mouth, she can’t look at them. That helps, a bit. A bit, bit not enough.
‘Deeper?’ she asks. She wonders if his whole fist could fit in her mouth.
His eyebrow arches. She’s never asked for this before. But he pushes his fingers deeper, so deep she gags on them. Her tongue slides over the metal.
He knows what she’s thinking, she’s sure. Perhaps one day they’ll talk about it, about the fact that this is hard for her. Not today, though. Today there is only the taste of metal and her own voice in her head.