Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Refusing to think badly about her when all I want is to fucking come, I undo my towel and fist my cock that’s come to life upon seeing her picture. She’s still my wife. Until I know she’s dead or left me, I’ll go on the assumption she’s alive somewhere out there missing me. I stroke and stroke, fixating on her plump lips. Her full tits. Her hooded eyes. Closing my eyes, I remember back to how tight she felt when I’d push into her slick cunt. How her tits would jiggle and she’d moan so fucking sweetly. Her fingernails would scrape down my shoulders and she’d beg for release. I groan when my nuts seize up. Heat splatters on my stomach and my chest heaves. When I reopen my eyes, I realize I’ve accidentally slid to the next picture. It’s one of her at the opening of Pomegranate that her mother took. I stole it from her mom’s social media like a fucking creepy stalker.
God, she’s beautiful.
She’s still out there.
She has to be.
As my eyes droop, I silently make a vow.
I’m coming for you, moró mou. I’m always coming for you.
And one day I’m going to find you.
Talia
“In the underworld, Proserpina has grown to love Pluto, who treated her with compassion and loved her as his Queen. As she would have up in Olympus, she remained eternally beautiful in the Underworld. Pluto admired her kind and nurturing nature. However, Proserpina missed her dear mother greatly and wished to spend time on earth with her. When Hermes reached the underworld, he requested that Proserpina come back to earth with him to rejoin her mother and father.” I turn the page of the book, and a tiny hand swats out at the page, wrinkling it slightly.
“No, no, sweet girl,” I tell her gently. “We have to be nice to the book.” She looks up at me with her radiant bright blue eyes and giggles, and my heart feels as though it’s thumped straight out of my chest. But I guess that comes with the territory. My mom used to always tell me being a mom means removing your heart and giving it to your children.
Wiping a drop of liquid emotion from my cheek, I continue to read my favorite part of the book. “Pluto knew he could not refuse the commands of Zeus, but he also could not part from his beloved Proserpina.” A golf ball sized lump fills my throat, and I have to set the book down for a minute to gather myself together. It always happens when I get to this part. Thoughts of him surface and I have to force them away. It’s the only way.
With a deep breath, I continue to read the story. “Before she departed from the underworld, Pluto offered Proserpina a pomegranate as a farewell. This was, however, a cunning move by Pluto. All the Olympians knew that if anyone ate or drank anything in the Underworld they would be destined to remain there for—”
“That book again?” a shrill voice, equivalent to nails grinding on a chalkboard, says, ruining story time.
Without turning to face the owner of the voice, I close the book and stare out at the blue waters of Mirabello Bay. From up here, I can’t smell the salt water, but I can still see the waves lapping up at the shore, and sometimes when I close my eyes, I can imagine being down there, lying in a hammock, smelling the scent of—
“You know it doesn’t understand anything you’re saying, right?” the annoying voice continues, snapping me out of my daydream. “It’s a baby,” she snarls.
“And that’s why I’m the mom and you’re the maid.” I give my daughter a kiss on her forehead and inhale her fresh baby scent that’s mixed with chlorine from our swim in the pool earlier. “She’s not an it. And she’s almost six months old. She’s sitting up and crawling. She laughs and…” I turn around to face the maid, annoyed at myself for allowing her to work me up, but I can’t help it. Every time she speaks of my daughter as if she’s some alien, it riles up my mama bear instincts and I pounce.
When my eyes scan down her body, I notice she’s dressed in a skimpy shrimp-colored dress and white heels, her face full of makeup, like she’s about to go to the club instead of rotate the laundry. Her collagen-filled lips are pursed together in a mixture of hate and confusion, and I roll my eyes. I don’t know why I even bother to try to explain anything to her. She doesn’t have a single maternal bone in her body. I pity anything—plant, human, animal, mineral—she attempts to care for. It will be dead within days.
I shake my head, giving up on explaining to her for the millionth time, my daughter is probably smarter at six months old than she is at…however old she is. It’s hard to tell. Her voice is screechy and whiny, giving off a young vibe, but all the makeup makes her appear to be older. “Never mind. What do you want?”