The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Three

I think about Aidan Foley's eyes all the way home.

The way he'd looked at me made me feel something married women weren't supposed to feel about men who weren't their husbands. His eyes seemed to have burned themselves into my brain. Like when you see a bright image and close your eyes immediately and still see it even when they're closed.

Whether I allowed that to happen or whether I had no choice in the matter I don't know. But he intrigued me.

I'm certain it's not the 'tortured' artist thing. I hope it isn't. Because how bloody clichéd would that be? No, it wasn't that. I'd interviewed the tortured artist type before, for the magazine; the occasional singer/songwriter or actor, and they'd never affected me in the slightest. No, there was something else about Aidan Foley. 

A quiet thoughtfulness. 

A depth.

He looked at me like he could see me. Really see me. See who I was now. And he wasn't disgusted or repelled by what he saw.

How I can even be thinking these things considering I spoke to the guy for all of five minutes, and insulted him for the majority of that time, I don't know. Christ, his impression of me must be far removed from what mine is of him.

Oh to go back. Though I'd more than likely make the same ignorant mistake again. How the hell was I supposed to know who he was?

"El?" Oliver says.

"Sorry, what?" I ask, distracted, turning to face him. In the dark light of the taxi, Oliver looks devilishly handsome. The dark copper of his hair, his jaw darkening with the hint of stubble I rather preferred on him, the roguish glint in his eyes. Very different from the immaculately put together banker I saw every morning.

"I was asking if tonight was as bad as you thought? As dreadful as you imagined? I do know how much you hate that kind of thing."

"Then why do you make me go?" I ask. "If you know I hate them?"

His brow furrows. "Because you're my wife, El, and I'm sick of making fucking excuses for why you're never with me." His tone is cold and I regret immediately asking the question.

He's right.

It's been almost 3 months since we moved out here and tonight was only my second evening out in a social capacity. He must have asked me to a dozen events, some with Jordan and Nicole, some with his boss, some corporate work events he was expected to attend, and a dozen times I'd refused. He'd been mainly patient. He'd allowed me to hide and grieve.

I lean forward, placing my hand on his thigh and touch my lips to his. As we kiss, he puts his hand over mine and pulls them both up between his thighs, squeezing my hand over him gently. Through his expensive trousers, I feel him harden under my touch.

"I know," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm trying — I'll try harder."

He says nothing in response, just moves his mouth onto mine again, stroking my tongue with his as he moves to hold my face in his hands. He tilts his hips up into his growing erection and I feel his breathing quicken as he groans softly against my mouth.

As he does this Aidan Foley floats unbidden into my mind and I can't help but wonder what it would feel like to kiss him in the back of a taxi. Hands and mouths touching, passion building, need growing. A soft moan escapes my mouth at the thought and my thighs clench and tingle of their own accord.

Our backseat embrace is halted when the taxi comes to a stop in front of our elegant brownstone building. Oliver pays the driver as I step out and walk toward the door.