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The thing about drawing lines in the sand is that sand shifts and lines can be erased, washed away by the tide as though they never existed.
It was a tacit agreement. They were partners, nothing more.
“He’s married,” she would say any time anyone brought up the suggestion of more.
Married-as though that were an impossible, insurmountable obstacle instead of a piece of paper.
Married-because she was a detective first and a woman second and she wasn’t going to risk their partnership.
Married-because he was a Catholic first and a detective second and he wasn’t going to risk the wrath of his god.
Married-because she needed that line in the sand. Emotional could never, ever become physical.
And now that married man was standing in her apartment, offering her comfort after an exhausting and grueling day, and she was struggling to find the words to send him home to his wife and children, and instead they died in her throat, drowning in the swelling tide of her emotions.
“You sure you’re okay?” He asked it again with a rough edge to his voice, and then simply reached for her, cupping her face in his strong, steady hand.
She turned and pressed her lips into his palm, an acknowledgment, but also an invitation.
“Liv.” Her name. A single syllable, a question, a warning, an entreaty. He hadn’t moved his hand, and she wondered if he could feel her pulse under his fingers—if he knew just how fast her heart was beating.
She nodded, a nearly imperceptible movement against his hand, and the last remnant of that line in the sand washed away in the stormy oceans of his eyes. His thumb gently traced her lower lip, and she finally found her voice to simply say, “El . . .”
His mouth was on hers, and she was opening to him, tasting him, savoring him. His hand was in the open neckline of her robe, caressing her breast, teasing her nipple, and she sighed into his open mouth. Her hand was on his ass, wordlessly pulling him closer.
They fucked on her couch—as though moving to her bedroom would’ve made it real. They fucked silently—unwilling to put words to what was happening. But they fucked with their eyes open—the new tacit agreement. It would be one time and one time only, and they weren’t willing to let a single second--a single moment--go without committing it to memory.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling his pants back on. The line drawn again.
She shook her head. “I’m not.”
They were both lying. They were both telling the truth.
The thing about lines in the sand is that they’re there for a reason.
~fin