Beauty and the Beast

Day 3

Meine liebe, liebe Silke!
Do you still have any photos of me, of us left from the few years we knew each other? I burnt all of mine the day I returned to Halle. The only woman whose eyes I wanted to lose myself in were Lina's.
You almost took Lina away from me, too. It took me so much effort to cover up what had happened between the two of us. I wonder what I might have done had she left me as well.
Even so, there isn't a day that passes that i don't think of you. Even on my wedding day, as I was straightening my tuxedo, I let myself be transported back to that evening we fell into your parents' bed together. It was your idea; a beautiful one at that. I never felt so deliciously defiant as I did in that moment, as we writhed as one amid your father's costly silk sheets.

We lay there for what felt like hours afterwards, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. Your father was gracious enough to leave a half full bottle of champagne on his dresser, and I remember how lousy you were at drinking from a bottle without your lips touching the rim. The droplets of champagne trailed an almost impeccable path down your chin, down your neck, down your collarbone. Despite the fact that I had just had you, I had to bite back the urge to follow the trail of champagne with my hands, my lips, my tongue.
The subject of our future wedding was soon brought up. I told you that I would do everything in my power to impress your father and make a good impression on him so he would give his consent. You said that I ought to ask him when he's drunk, as he would say yes, even sign a paper without any second thoughts.

I had had to step away from the mirror and sit down after that. I shut my eyes, spat curse after curse, attempted to shake your memory from my head. But you wouldn't leave, like a parasite clinging to its host.

You sat up and asked if I would brush your hair. I'd never been asked to do anything like that for a girl before, and so I tried my best to humor you. You tossed your head to one side, exposing your smooth, slender neck to my hungry eyes. I set the brush aside and pressed my lips to your pale skin. You were so warm it sent electric shocks down my spine. I was inwardly appalled at the intensity of the myriad of feelings I was slowly suffocating in—I had been with many, many women over the years, but none of them reached into my soul the way you did. Before long, the two of us were at it again, our original positions reversed this time. What thrilled me about you the most was how much of an innocent person you seemed to be in public, as opposed to how you were behind closed doors, amid twisted sheets. Over the sound of the bedsprings squeaking and the ornate headboard hitting the wall, I heard the dull thud of the brush hitting the floor.
I asked you if you were tired after that. You looked at me and asked me if it were ever possible to get tired of someone like me. I felt like someone had taken a bicycle pump and filled me to the brim with pride. I found no exhaustion in your eyes, only a smoldering, sultry lust that mirrored my own.

I buried my head in my hands. I was getting married to another woman, for God's sake, a woman with whom I would spend the rest of my life. I couldn't afford to think of a femme fatale that had cost me my career, and yet—

Lying on my chest, you told me how you wanted a huge, pretty dress, so huge it would need to be draped over the back of the limousine. You told me how since I was a naval officer it would only be proper for us to go on a cruise for our honeymoon. I interjected with the opinion that I would go anywhere with you, and take you everywhere, if it meant that we got to spend all our time together the way we were presently whiling the hours away.
The topic soon turned to having children. I remember you griping about how I would eventually become disgusted by your deformed figure after bearing my children. I told you I would never get tired of looking at you, and that seemed to appease you.
You told me you would give me a boy first, to make me happy. I was certain at that moment that you were indispensable to me, that I would die if I couldn't spend the rest of my life with you. You asked me my opinion on potential names, and I gave you my first two choices—Klaus or Heider. I then went on to tell you how if we had a girl, we had to, had to name her Silke. I wanted any daughter of mine to embody everything her mother was: beauty, grace, kindness.
Your face grew bright red with embarrassment, and you leaned forward and fused your lips to mine. I don't know who reached for the other first. Once again I relinquished myself to you; I let myself be pulled under by your allure, your charm. I gave in to my body's deepest, darkest desires and let myself go once more. The shattering release was absolute bliss, utter Nirvana.

We lost track of time, and before I knew it, your father was fifteen minutes away from coming home. Notwithstanding, we hastily pulled on as many layers of clothing as was appropriate and went to your room, where we  continued our rendezvous. We only stopped at the sound of your father raging at the servant for failing to make his bed. We were both laughing silently, unrestrainedly, our heads in each other's shoulders to mask the sounds of our ill founded amusement.
Similar scenes were repeated tens, if not hundreds of times throughout the two years I knew you, Silke. You were so good to me—so so good to me, and I loved you for it. Not only that: I loved you for everything that was you. Sex or no sex, you were still the most dear creature to my heart.
So why, then, Silke, why? Why did you cast all that away?
Much love,
Your Reinhard