Mercy is Strained

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Wednesday's words: early, jiggle, quality

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Mercy is Strained

Early light crept like fingers through veneer blinds, teased her awake. Cheryl surfaced from the fog of sleep, wet and hungry. Jeremy’s steady, heavy breathing next to her stirred something she seldom felt in the morning. Mornings were for showers and teeth brushing, not sex.

She couldn’t explain why she wanted him—needed him—at this precise moment. It’s not as though he’d expressed any interest in her. Hadn’t for quite some time now. Jeremy insisted it wasn’t the extra pounds she’d put on since they’d exchanged vows. And she believed him; at least she told herself she did.

Back in the day, Jeremy couldn’t keep his hands off her. He’d catch her gaze, glance at a closed door, and Cheryl would lead the way. The lock to the office utility closet would hardly engage before her skirt was around her waist, panties thrust aside.

Need flared with the memory. Cheryl pressed against him, bare skin next to bare skin. The moonstone pendant (the only thing she wore to bed) jiggled between her breasts as she reached over, skimmed a hand over his hip, dipped down to grip…limp, lifeless.

She closed her eyes, mortified. Not even in his dreams did he want her; her pound of flesh rejected once again.

Portia was wrong, Cheryl thought, the quality of mercy is strained and it showers down in biting hail.

Soundlessly, she pulled away, lay back on her side of the bed, pressed her face into the pillow. She lay motionless until he woke and stepped into the shower an hour later.