Wiping the condensation from the bathroom mirror with a nearby hand towel, Cynthia looked at her foggy reflection and sighed. She wrapped the soft, terry cloth dressing gown tightly around herself and pulled the elastic from her hair, letting it fall down around her shoulders. Frustrated with herself, she could not deny that she still cared. She still cared about whether or not her ex-husband found her attractive, despite everything that had happened. Would she always be his fool?
She fussed with the hand towel, folding it neatly and placing it back on the rack, trying to find the perfect positioning.
“Cyn?” He knocked on the door softly. “You’ve been in there almost an hour. Alright, luv?”
His mood had unsurprisingly shifted again, and he became attentive and sweet. She couldn’t keep up with the constant back and forth. Three weeks ago he left her, and their son, for a second time. He was going to be moving to New York in a few weeks for Christ’s sake; how much longer would it be before he reverted back to his old ways, before he changed his mind and discarded her again? Why was it always up to him?
“Yes. I’m fine, thanks,” she called. Walking over to the door, she took a deep breath and ran her hands over the dressing gown, ensuring the knot was tied good and tight. “Don’t fall for this,” she muttered to herself before opening the door.
“Enjoy yer bath, then?” He asked, quite awkwardly as he stood there by the door, unsure of what to do.
“Yes, thank you.”
Tensions were high and they both suddenly became shy.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve just ordered up a bit of room service. You must be starvin’.”
“A bit, yes. That’s lovely, thanks.” She walked past him. “I just need to sort out my case and change quickly.” She looked toward the foyer and realized her suitcase had vanished. “Where’s it gone? Did you move it?” She turned back to him.
“It’s in the closet.” He stepped forward, pulling her into his arms. “I rather like you in that dressing gown.”
His tone was soft, not urgent, and he seemed content just to hold her. She knew he was nervous.
“John,” she looked in his eyes knowingly and shook her head.
He softly ran his hand over her cheek, to her ear, tucking a bit of her hair behind it. “Give us a kiss, Miss Powell?”
She hated and loved him all the same when she nodded yes. This was her John, and she couldn’t resist.
He kissed her very slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid she’d pull away at any moment. It was a kiss that reminded her of when they were children, frightened teenagers just learning how to trust each other, terrified of a broken heart.
She pushed him away softly when he moved his kisses to her neck.
“Sorry,” he muttered, looking down before back to her. She smiled when he cleared his throat nervously, glancing to the door. “Right. Well, I don’t know where the fuckin’ room service is.”
It scared her how much she still loved him, how easy it was to forgive and how little she thought of life back home. She knew it was shameful, but her John, the John she fell in love with as a young girl, was the only who made her truly happy.
He knew her.
She teased him, hoping for a smile. “Come on then, you muppet,” she said quietly. “Let’s watch a bit of telly while we wait.”
He smiled at her and walked over to the bed, collapsing where he had slept earlier. “Good. I could do with a bit of relaxin’. You woke me up out of a right sleep, you did.”
