All of those drunken confessions have led to this night. Each time we sat together, bottle of wine on the table, feet on the sofa, Adele or Emeli or Lana on the stereo, you loosening up and me listening. As the evenings wore on you inevitably confided a new secret and I stored it away with the rest. I know you better than you know yourself. I know your deepest desires, I know what turns you on, and I know exactly what you are yearning for.
Of course, most of the time you wanted to talk about him. “He’s amazing in bed,” you told me as you stretched your foot out onto my lap. I massaged your toes and pictured the scene you described in such candid detail. You riding him like a cowgirl, his cock the perfect girth to make you feel so full and tight that you gushed for the first time. “He loved it.” I saw the misty look in your eyes as your cunt remembered and I squeezed your foot a little firmer in acknowledgment.
Some nights I thought you were all out of confessions but then the wine would kick in, you’d give me that naughty-girl look, and another story, even lewder than the last, would leave your lips. You knew you had a willing and expectant audience; I knew you needed to be heard.
We’d almost drained the bottle of red the night you told me the biggest secret. If you hadn’t told me...