The Thursday Night Woman by Tom Sheehan – Adult Content.

It was all hers, the night, the huge house, the loneliness, the dark corners of every room that she knew so well. It was all hers, and Thursday was special, just about every Thursday except the ones precluded by her natural flow. First, there’d be a soak in the tub, for an hour or so, after which she’d stand in front of the 7-foot mirror and study herself, always noting the dark mass of pubic hair, curled and rolled and headlining her view. There was a connection with that action, left by her husband, Kent.

Kent, millionaire, pilot, gone in his plane out over the Atlantic almost two years to the day as she looked at the calendar attached to the mirror. Hope, back then, momentous at first, died a quick death too; no sign of wreckage, of a washed-up body waiting identification, no husband to call that bushy mass she wore at her dark triangle, his “Crown of the night.”

And every blessed night, which he called in turn, “Woman, bring that crown of loveliness to the king’s bed.” She remembered him yelling it from the attic where he dawdled on maps and plane parts and future voyages, air-borne and free, and she never once could abide the tight cabin of the plane, a Cessna Demon she ended up calling it, taking Kent from her six days a week and all Thursdays, that routine now in fevered leaps from one Thursday to the next, never a skip in the move.

She swore she could hear echoes of him, even from afar, wherever he now winged: “Make the most of every moment, especially when you are alone here in this mansion we threw open for hundreds and hundreds of kin, friends, poor souls needing a lift in their lives, regardless of loss. Loss kills more of us than we know, day in, day out, a routine borne of uncontrolled loneliness. Don’t be lonely, my queen of bed and night, so listen to my calling, and from wherever I end my last day. She thought it was a dagger of pronouncement, part of the echo system he managed from a far point when he wanted to, to make it lethal, like every last word is lethal, left wandering if not heard, nut hardly squandered.

The night her aunt Celia, millionaire in her own right, sat at a celebration table with her, and they both heard Kent’s echo working through plaster and Time, “Where is my pubic crown of desire abiding right now? Come you hence, which she always heard as “Come, you hence.” As if it was a new plea of his lost nights, the mighty Atlantic too broad and deep for survival, her triangle now as mysterious as the Bermuda Triangle, as those lost forever and last Thursday, the angles, corners, all dimensions gone as fair trade with weather itself, an odd cloud at salvation.

She remembered, early on, taking his hand and placing it inside the right cup of her brassiere and saying, “If you love it, love that nipple with lips, mouth, tongue, to the last thrill, all of that, then there’s more on the other side.” It was said so matter of fact, he immediately went under the other cup. And she knew he had fallen in love with her in that instant, quicker than an arrow in flight, quicker than the Devil himself moving in tight quarters no matter what his guest was wearing or not wearing at that crucial moment. There is revelation, she realized, and then, there is ownership in such demands.

She came free of the tub’s warm grip, looked in the mirror, saw herself as Kent saw her, and the ritual began, slowly but surely hitting the G-spot, the clit reacting, her suddenly born again, alive again, Kent’s Thursday Night’s woman again, finding the spark of creation again, him here again, with her again, again and again, clit lit and fit, her specialty, her own treatment, lost time done away with, and he comes winging in flight again, all of him, every bit of him, transported over time and tide to her side, her man again, the jolts reaching deep inside her, a fistful inside, the worries gone, whole again, all the way whole again, a pair of goggles beginning to shake and shiver on her vanity, and the more she rubbed, the closer he came, her pilot winging home again, where he belonged, the rubbing endless, his return periodically endless for one more Thursday’s return of her lover.

Tom Sheehan

Ad Meskens, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons