The Devil's Plaything: A cursed affair

Past Lover

The question hung heavy in the air, laced with a touch of apprehension. “Had there been anyone before me, Ralph?” It seemed an undeniable truth that Ralph’s past held experiences with love, perhaps even relationships with women. Yet, a gnawing curiosity compelled me to seek verification.

Ralph turned gracefully, his movements measured and deliberate, and met my gaze from across the kitchen. He meticulously wiped his hands on a dishcloth, the sound echoing softly in the stillness. A flicker of emotion, an indecipherable code momentarily etched on his features, before he spoke softly.

“In the tapestry of my past,” he began, his voice a low murmur, “there existed a woman who held a place of profound affection. She was, for a time, the sun around which my world revolved.” A pause, short whit with unspoken sentiment, followed.

“Now, however, a bittersweet pang of remembrance constricts my chest.” His words struck a chord within me, igniting a spark of jealousy that I tried valiantly to suppress.

“Okay!” I intended to retort with a sharp edge, but the words died on my tongue, replaced by a forced neutrality. Ralph, oblivious to the turmoil within me, continued with his tasks, the clinking of dishes momentarily breaking the silence.

The initial urge was to lash out with a cutting remark, fueled by a flicker of jealousy. However, upon reflection, I opted for a more measured approach. Ralph, engrossed in his tasks, seemed oblivious to the emotional turmoil brewing within me.

With practiced efficiency, he donned fresh gloves, retrieved a tray, and placed it on the table. “Love,” he began, a hint of wry amusement in his voice, “a fickle thing it can be. Like many others, I’ve tasted its bitter sting. A past relationship, unfortunately, soured my perspective for a time.”

A thoughtful pause followed. “Then you entered my world,” he continued, his gaze holding mine with a newfound intensity. “A spark ignited, rekindling a flame I believed extinguished. Despite reservations, I found myself captivated by you.”

The “Cinderella” analogy dissolved. A more profound question surfaced, demanding honesty. “Do the embers of a past love still burn brighter than what you feel for me?” I inquired, my voice betraying a touch of vulnerability.

Ralph’s words held a cryptic quality. “Love,” he mused, “can blossom in an instant, yet wither over years. It’s a sentiment that resonates with me.” This oblique reference to his past only intensified the knot of suspicion coiling in my gut.

Pushing for clarity, I pressed, “Do these lingering affections color your feelings for me now?” The question tumbled out, laced with a tremor of insecurity I tried to mask.

His response was immediate, disarming. He speared a drumstick, placing it on my plate with practiced ease. A fleeting touch, a brush of his fingers against my head, lingered just a moment too long. It danced on the line between tenderness and condescension.

“My love for you is as present as the moment itself,” he asserted, his gaze holding mine. “The past casts no shadow over my heart. My future,” his voice dipped to a husky register, “is woven with yours. Let go of these doubts, darling. Savor this meal, you must be famished. Perhaps I could even have the pleasure of feeding you?”

The sudden shift in our physical proximity left me breathless. One moment I was opposite him, the next I was perched on his lap, his actions leaving me both surprised and strangely vulnerable.

Muttering softly beneath my breath, I subtly shifted within his grasp, a slight movement that drew a faint groan from him as he seemed to register my actions. His voice, low and tinged with amusement, broke the silence as he gently spooned a mouthful of rice towards me.