Two-Timing

Copyright © 2016 by Roger M. Wilcox.  All rights reserved.





Two years from now . . .

Roger drove down highway 2 toward Teresa's house, carrying two vials of her favorite MDMA cocktail. He'd been on many dates with her over the last two years, but this time would be the last. They were saying goodbye to the two of them.

He had two-timed her. It was an unforgivable sin, to split his romantic love between two women. He would never have dreamed of crossing that line two years ago, when he and Teresa had been two lovers with eyes all for each other. Twice before, he'd been tempted, and twice before he'd stayed true to her. But two trips around the sun had diluted their love and worn away his resolve, and at last he'd cut the final thread holding the two of them together into two separate pieces, as separate as the two of them had become.

Roger took exit 2, drove down to 2nd street, and parked in front of the second house on the right. Her house. The two rows of violets framing either side of its main walkway looked as pristine and well-manicured as ever. He took two deep breaths, then palmed the two vials, planted both feet on the sidewalk, and strolled slowly toward her front door. The fragrant aroma of the violets wafted from both sides of him and caressed his two nostrils. He savored the view and the scent, hoping it would make the sweet memory last a little longer; but at last, her front path ended and her front door loomed before him.

He knocked twice.

Two heartbeats later, the door creaked open, almost casually, on its two hinges. And there she was. Teresa. As beautiful as she ever was. No smile graced her two lips this time, though. She only looked at him with two matter-of-fact eyes. With a barely-perceptible lift of her two eyebrows, she said, "Two o'clock. Right on time."

He held out the two vials for her in his hand. She took both of them. He frowned; that was unexpected. He meant for her only to take the second vial, so that the two of them could share in the experience as they'd done so often before. He meant it to be the last hurrah for the two of them. But she . . .

She held up the twin vials and shook her head. "Not together. Not any more." She gently pressed both vials back into his hand, and closed two of his fingers around them. Her two brief sentence fragments stung both his ears.





Send comments regarding this Web page to: Roger M. Wilcox.
Click here to go back to my main old stories page