Love

"What? What?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry ..."

"But, darling ..."

They had been kissing passionately by the fireside when he had pulled away suddenly, leaping off the sofa, putting on his slippers and hurrying to his study.

Sighing, Marie rearranged her dressing gown and ran her hands slowly through her tangled hair. She sat up straight, closed her eyes, gave a long sigh, opened her eyes and heaved herself off the sofa. She shoved her feet in to her own slippers and made her way to the kitchen.

He was peering in to his laptop when she entered the study carrying a tray bearing two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and four slices of whole-wheat toast.

She was used to this routine. They'd been married for three decades, and it had been this way for twenty of those thirty years. After the natural, initial reaction when he abruptly broke off in the midst of passion, she invariably brought him a hot drink and a snack. Sometimes, when he was very absorbed in the laptop, she fed him with her fingers and held the mug to his lips while he sipped. Today was one such day. She alternated her own drink/snack with babying him.

When he had drained the last drop of hot chocolate, he turned and looked at her. His eyes were bright and had a hint of tears in them.

"Marie ..." he whispered.

"Yes, Jason dear?"

"Marie ..."

"Still here."

"Marie, Marie, listen."

"I'm listening, Jason."

"I've found it, Marie. After twenty years, I've found it."

She chewed the last bit of her toast and swallowed it. She put her mug to her lips and drained it. Finally, she spoke. "Found it?"

"I've found the cure for Writer's Cramp."

She almost let go of the mug, but steadied herself in time.

"You've what?"

"And YOU helped."

"I did?"

"Yes. Yes. You see ..."

He stood up, grabbed the mug and plonked it on the table and then tucked one arm under her neck and another under her knees. He had carried her over the threshold as a bride, and, though both of them were a little older now, he could carry her still.

He hurried to the sofa with her and put her on it. He tugged at her dressing gown. Hastily, she shed it. Her nighty had a front zipper, and he pulled it down so hard he almost tore the fabric. He parted the nighty and gazed at her breasts, his breath coming in short gasps.

"The cure for Writer's Cramp," he announced, "is to make love. To make love to the love of your life."

"Oh," she managed to utter.

"Yes. Making love to the love of your life," he explained, as he eased the nighty completely off, "releases the correct hormones and moves the exact muscles needed ... dear, raise your bottom so I can take your panties off ... good girl .."

She gazed up at him. He was gazing back down at her, the lust shining in his eyes.

"And," he continued, "when the loved one gets naked, the only side effect is that you have the urge to be naked too."

"I'll help you with that side effect." She sat up and did so.

"And as I was saying ..."

"Never mind what you were saying. Don't say anything, just do it."

Obediently, he bent down - as she moved up, giggling, so that his lips, instead of meeting her lips, met ... "Ah," he sighed, sweetly.

"Feel those hormones," he murmured. "And those muscles. What a cure, what a cure for Writer's Cramp."

It was when his lips reached her belly button that she interrupted him.

"Jason?"

"Yeah."

"Jason, before you go any lower, could you just check the laptop for a moment? I'd entered Cramp yesterday and want to know if I won. And if I didn't I'd like to start thinking about the new prompt."