Batting For A Better Coop

[This story was my entry in a writing contest. A huge thank you to Antarctica77 himself, as well as others giving their feedback in the process. And also a big thanks to you who read this! Please feel free to drop a comment or a message with your thoughts on the story.]

The concept of mid-life crisis seemed weird to me for the longest time, until I one Tuesday afternoon had a slight epiphany and found myself pondering what I wanted to do with my life. The odd thing about those thoughts was obviously the contrast to me being a healthy man of 36 with a bachelor's degree in accounting, being married to a wonderful woman, having a well-paying job I really liked, and the mortgage on our house was dwindling at a nice pace. We didn't have any kids yet, but things were generally looking good.

But right there, in the middle of having everything lined up for a happily ever after, it struck me that 'this is it', and I felt deep and bleak sadness. Or perhaps despair would be more fitting, since I was filled with utter hopelessness for the future of my life. In hindsight it seems ridiculous, but I remember the feeling vividly and my wife could easily nod approvingly to my recollection.

As the realist that I claim to be, I decided to turn it off and just power through, as if nothing had happened. I was convinced that if I just grinded away, I would get through whatever dark clouds were surrounding me and life would continue as normal. But every rationalization only served to bring me deeper into despair about my future, and on Friday the next week, I broke down and was not able to get back up.

The time that followed is foggy in my memory. I know from reports and people I have talked to since, that I had a serious panic attack in the office and was picked up by an ambulance. The doctors and nurses and other people with white coats and grave facial expressions came and went, before finally, after eleven days in the hospital, I was assigned to therapy with a psychologist in addition to general bedrest and calm life at home. My wife and boss had come to an agreement that I would take a one-year sabbatical leave, with an option to come back earlier if I should recover sooner.

I received lots of 'get well soon' greetings from family, friends and colleagues, and from one of my clients, a MW Decorations we received a rather extravagant flower assortment, which both looked and smelled divine and got both myself and Susan in an instant better mood. Looking back, I'm now convinced that the sheer amount of love and concern shown to us helped me in my recovery far more than I realized at the time.

My therapist was magnificent. He understood the situation and was able to let me see first the bottom in the pit I was in, then the spiraling road out of there. He suggested I should keep a journal to record all my thoughts as I was slowly healing, slow being the key word. Holy mother of Zeus was it slow! Apparently, I also needed to work on my patience, and in effect, my basal needs. He showed me an illustration of a pyramid, and how people's needs are hierarchically connected, founded on basic needs of food and sleep, upwards through needs of belonging, all the way up to the need for enlightenment.

After several months of getting the basic structures back in shape, my therapist suggested I could do some self-realization and be creative. As an accountant, being creative is less than optimal, but I used to have a healthy imagination growing up, to the extent that I on occasion would blend fantasy figures into my real-world experience.

"You've been keeping a journal during therapy," my wife stated supportively. "Maybe you should try your hand at some fiction?"

And that is what I did. I still had two months left of my sabbatical and for the first time in a long while, I felt like doing something more than just my daily routines. And thus, I wrote. I started with some fairytale renditions, but soon moved over to writing about made up people in made up settings.

These creative juices proved to be a huge milestone in my recovery, because on that night, for the first time in eleven months, I made love with my wife. She had tried to instigate sex on several occasions, but either I would be too tired, completely lacking in sex drive, or simply would not be able to get an erection. She stopped trying and for the last eight months there had not been a single attempt. I guess she waited for me to get back into it, and that night turned out to be the moment she had been waiting for.

It was tender and soft. After eating her out, I entered her and through loving words and slow rocking back and forth, we reconnected on the physical fields of love. When I came, we both had tears running down our cheeks, tears of pure joy and affection.

From there, I wrote all day, every day, for five days straight, until Susan sat me down in the living room for a talk. We'd had some of those before as well, and it was generally if I had done something, or neglected to do something, that she was upset about. This time, it was a strange mix of compassion, concern and a stern reprimand. She had observed how I was behaving manically in the face of my newfound vigor for writing, to the extent of not eating, not sleeping and not recognizing her as a part of our household. Of course I was hurt at first, as the proud man I am, but Susan has always had a way of speaking through my indignation and reaching the area of sense in my brain. I apologized. She let me know that she had devised a plan for my days going forward, as to not getting burned out before I was to return to work from a burnout.

I got back to following the schedule I had developed with my therapist, sprinkled with Susan's input. I would get up as if I was going to work, but instead, I had to go for a walk or a bike ride for thirty minutes. Then, after breakfast, I was allowed to write until lunch break. Then I could write some more, but at five I had to stop what I was doing and make us dinner. The evenings I could spend with her or with some other friends, or whatever really, but I was not allowed to write a single word.

This worked surprisingly well for several weeks. I had written about a hundred pages and still felt inspired to continue, but I didn't see where I was going with the story. There were a lot of descriptions of characters and travels, but there was no real thread in the story. This was somewhat upsetting, and I could feel some darkness seeping back in, and the next thing I remember is Susan sitting over me, screaming and looking terrified. I had passed out and in the fall from my chair I had hit the edge of the table and somehow managed to get a cut above my eye. I was bleeding a surprising amount, which made it all seem a lot more serious than it was. Susan had been on the verge of calling an ambulance due to the mess I'd made, but luckily, I had come to on her second scream and shake. After cleaning up the cut and taping it shut, my mirror image gave me associations to Rocky shouting out for Miranda, which made me chuckle a bit.

One thing I had learned through my first round of therapy was that I should be open and honest about my feelings and what's nagging me. I told Susan about my concern and how I felt lost in the woods. I could see the compassion in her eyes, and suddenly a glint that clearly indicated a thought or possible solution.

"I think you might need some feedback on your story. Perhaps from an editor or someone like that."

In hindsight her comment seemed so glaringly obvious, but at the time this was revolutionary to me. I had written solely for my own benefit, and the thought of sharing this story with anyone had honestly never crossed my mind. My journals were kind of personal and I had only let my wife read parts here and there, but the story I was writing was just general fiction, perhaps inspired by real life experiences, but nothing I'd deem personal on any level. It just never occurred to me that anyone might want to read it.

"Maybe Sam might be able to help," she continued, while shifting her gaze between my eyes, as if to gauge my reaction. Or rather how significant my reaction might be.

You see, Sam Woodwyn was not an insignificant person from Susan's past. They grew up together, attended Sunday school and children's choir together, went through puberty and confirmation together. They were friends, who became close friends. Then, secretly, they became an item and finally lovers. They loved each other deeply and truly, and they were as close to the definition of 'meant to be' as one might find in a dictionary. They had even constructed their own seal, albeit just an embellished section marker for two S's, but still, they planned on growing old together.

But then it was their church. That fucking church. Susan had told me several years ago about everything that happened, but even now, many years after she was banished from their midst, I can easily see how hurt she gets whenever the wound is torn open. Sam was not to blame, though. Sam's father, an Elder in the congregation ("Like an old person? Why is that important?" "Heh, no, an Elder. It's like a board member," she had explained), had come upon Sam and Susan in the middle of lovemaking and had not taken to it kindly. Susan, who did not have a father in a high position, was marked as a seductress and a harlot and all kinds of encouraging and self-esteem building terms, and effectively excluded from the community of the true believers, while her parents had to apologize from the pulpit for their daughter's many transgressions. Sam had to repent and ask forgiveness from the pastor, nothing public, and that was it.

Susan had been devastated. She had basically lost her entire network of friends and community at the age of nineteen and was prohibited to meet the love of her life ever again.

"Sam?" I inquired, slowly losing interest in the prospect of getting ahead in my writing. "Are you sure you'd want to open your life to that shitstorm again?"

I guess I could have picked a better word and based on the look on Susan's face I clearly should have.

"Sam was not and is not a shitstorm!" she answered, the hurt painfully present in her voice.

"Sorry, honey. That was not what I meant. I know how highly you think of Sam, and I was not referring to your ex, but rather the whole world of assholery that comes along if you make contact. Will you be okay with that? I doubt Mr. Elderly asshat will be any kinder this time around."

Susan snickered. For some completely mystical reason she likes my jokes, which at first was hard to accept, as I thought she was mocking me, but that has been a serious boost to my confidence over the last five years. And I still get her to laugh at silly remarks like that.

"No, I'm sure he'll still be pissed. And I'd not be happy to encounter him any time soon. But I love you, and Sam is a professional editor, and you need an editor, and as far as I'm concerned, Sam owes me one," she concluded, with nothing but love and warmth in her eyes.

I'm fully aware of the trope - rekindled love and going back to her long-lost love. But honestly, I was never in doubt. I know my wife loves me and she chose to be with me. She is even willing to endure the wrath of a former father figure to help me out of my gutter. I'm sure she can still feel residues of love for her ex, but why should that matter as long as she and I love each other now. It's not like Sam and I even compete in the same league, anyways.

After several rounds of 'are you sure' and 'I love you', Susan reached out to Sam on social media. Turns out, Susan had kept a pretty good track of everything Sam had been up to and knew how to best get in contact. They agreed to meet up for coffee, and when Susan came home after their meeting, she was a tight knit bundle of all emotions known to mankind. We spent several hours, and a few bottles of strong drink, sitting on our couch, her head on my shoulder and me stroking her back, while she talked about the reunion, the things they talked about, and all her feelings and thoughts connected to the aforementioned.

All in all, it had been a good meetup. Sam had been heartbroken for a long time after their sudden break-up, not at all helped by Mr. Asshat demanding Sam repent and undergo some form of exorcism ("For real?! Isn't that just in movies?" "No, it's a thing in church. And it was even Sam's father who did the deeds.") to be cleansed from the filthy impression that Susan had left. Sam had been worn down, until finally, exhausted from the manipulations, denounced everything they had experienced together. But Sam never forgot about Susan, and many secret tears were shed due to their lost love.

Their first meeting had taken a toll on both, and it took a few days before they were able to schedule a lunch close by Sam's publishing house. During their second meeting they had talked about the current status of their lives. Sam had tried a few relationships, but nothing had actually worked out, except for a couple of finches called Hugin and Munin. Susan had laughed so hard at Sam naming the birds according to Norse mythology, to spite high-and-mighty, religious pompous Mr. Asshat, by the way a nickname that Susan had taken to rather fondly, I had noticed. The finches were apparently as much of a source to information as he had ever been, and Susan had suggested that Sam get another finch and give it the name Atticus, an idea Sam wholeheartedly bought into.

They had also touched on the subject of my writing, and Sam had seemed eager to help. So much, in fact that we were invited to dinner at Sam's place that upcoming Friday. I could see that Susan was nervous, and who could blame her. She was about to introduce her husband and her ex.

When Sam opened the door there were a few thoughts that suddenly crossed my mind. My first thought was that this whole idea was a huge mistake. Sam opened the door with a cheerful, "Hiii! You're here! Welcome!" before giving my wife a sincere hug, full body contact, flat palm stroking up and down her back, as they rocked a bit side to side. About that time my second thought hit me, that Sam was objectively beautiful, with light brown hair and pale green eyes that beamed happy vibes, and a body any model or actor would be envious of. Standing slightly taller than Susan, they looked familiar and, I had to admit, very good while hugging out their greetings. And that was my third thought, that Susan seemed happy and very at ease with this situation.

"This is my husband Trevor," Susan said, introducing me to her ex, who immediately went in for a real bear hug that had me completely taken by surprise. And as I somewhat clumsily tried to reciprocate, Sam said, "It's so good to finally meet you! Susan has told me how great you are and I'm so happy she's got a stout guy like you in her life."

I was flabbergasted and overwhelmed. "Thanks, you too," I said, earning a small chuckle from Susan, and upon realizing my weak greeting and star struck demeanor, I blushed profusely. Sam was kind enough to not take notice of my sudden change of shade and ushered us into the house.

I handed over the wine we brought to Sam, who thanked and marveled a moment over the quality. I wouldn't call it vintage, but it was a very nice wine, and it would seem that Sam knew how to appreciate fineries. Again, the thought that this could be a very bad idea intruded on the moment, but was mixed with a feeling that this might have been a great idea. It could be argued that I felt conflicted on the topic.

"Dinner will be ready very soon. I'll get us something to drink," Sam announced, while striding back to the kitchen, bringing me back to the moment, and the next conflict in my brain ensued. I caught myself staring at Sam's ass. It was a glorious ass, clad in tight jeans, but it was still the ass of my wife's ex, and my wife was standing next to me. When the kitchen door broke my line of sight, I looked at Susan and knew instantly that she knew what I had stared at.

"It's a nice tush," she said with a smile and a wink, before she headed into the living room and sat down in one of the couches. I followed after her and contemplated my choices. I could agree with her and hope that it would not be awkward, or I could deny and feign ignorance, but she would see right through it and besides I don't like lying to my wife. I sat down on the opposing couch and chose option A. "Yes, it is," I stated and tried to make it sound objective and normal, as if appraising your wife's ex's perfectly formed ass in form-fitting garments was as natural as asking how her day was.

"No, I mean it. It's a very nice behind and I'm not mad that you look at it. After all, it's only natural to admire beautiful things," she said, and I sensed a bit of a giggle in her voice. Her words relaxed me somewhat, but the fact remained. Sam's posterior was enticing to me and my wife just called it beautiful. This might have been a very bad idea.

"Susan tells me you're an IPA guy," Sam said, handing me a glass that, after the first sip, unmistakably consisted of my favorite beer, "and a mimosa for the missis." As Sam handed her the drink, my eyes once more wandered over that mouth-watering ass, and I could not help but imagine that same ass, naked in bed with my wife. Sam sat down next to Susan and yet again she had caught me staring at her ex's butt.

We chatted about mundane stuff, just to get the conversation going and break any possible tension, but I was in a bad whirlpool of flashes between imaginary and actual happenings. We were all taking part in the chatter, but whenever either Sam or Susan said something, my mind kept on flashing to them being naked and intimate. When they were laughing or smiling, I imagined them kissing. I closed my eyes and took a few good gulps of my beverage, trying desperately to stagger my imaginations, and even worse, my growing erection. Yes, this was indeed a bad idea.

"...or was it eleven? Trevor, do you remember?" Susan said, trying to get my opinion on something, and they were both looking at me, smiling, expecting some input to what looked to be an amusing story. Something eleven... nope, too late. My empty look gave all the answers they could possibly need, but I could not come clean, and I could not lie, and I could not remain silent and ruin the good mood. Thank the gods for alcohol.

"Sorry, honey, I zoned out for a second. This is a fantastically good beer," I said, getting a good reaction from both, as Susan got me back into the topic of how many houses we looked at before settling on our current abode. Eleven was correct.

A timer went off and Sam bolted for the kitchen, and I willed myself not to watch those buns go. Instead, I looked at my wife and saw that she was absolutely staring at her ex's gorgeous glutes. I looked at her, but she did not notice, and I could sense the dreamy feeling behind her gaze as she reminisced about their time together as a couple. When her line of sight was broken, she looked over at me and seemed surprised to meet my eyes, and a shy smile spread across her lips.

The dinner turned out amazing. The beautifully decorated table and the artistically arranged meal on each plate, combined with the exquisite taste of the food and wine, served to exemplify Sam's sense of style as well as culinary skills. The conversation was loose, and we all enjoyed ourselves immensely. It became apparent to me why my wife had been head over heels in love with Sam, and probably still was a bit infatuated. There was nothing about my wife's ex that I didn't like, both inside and outside, but I managed to get through the whole dinner without picturing them in different stages of undress and intimate. That was, until Sam went into the kitchen to retrieve the dessert, and my eyes were taking in the complete form of Susan's previous lover walking away. I could feel myself getting hard, but also the raging conflict in my mind. Was I turned on by my wife's ex, or by the idea of them together, and why the hell was either of those alternatives on the table in the first place?