#(too much)

You’re both old enough to express a loss in attraction, but you’ve gone out with a couple of men your age with worse communication skills than a toddler, so maybe this isn’t any different. But Jack has been good at communicating his feelings and emotions. After tough shifts, he’ll call and ask if he can spend the night with you, or if he can pick you up and take you to his place. He will stay up to explain what has him so tense before melting into your arms and falling asleep for ten hours. There have also been moments when he’s cried to you about his time in the military or the people in his life who have now passed. 

Jack has never failed to talk to you about anything. Not even the information that might be ‘too much’ for others. Which is why you had spent the last couple of days quite anxious. But that flew out of the window on Monday when he told you to wear something nice and be ready by 7:00 on Friday night. 

Excited isn’t even the right word to explain how you felt. You jumped out of your bed and squealed like you once did as a teenager when you finally interacted with your crush. It was loud and annoying, and you did it until you picked out the most beautiful butter yellow silk dress stuffed in the back of your closet. You placed it on your closet door the entire week until it was finally time to put it on Friday evening. 

Earlier, you took a long shower – exfoliating and shaving every inch of your skin, followed by scrubbing yourself down with your expensive, once-in-a-blue-moon body wash. You used your fancy lotion, body oil, and perfume and draped the dress on. 

It looked gorgeous. It still looks gorgeous on you, but it’s drenched in tears. 

It’s now 7:30, and you’re sitting on your porch steps waiting for him to miraculously appear in front of you. You keep looking up at the moon and what little stars coat the urban sky and speak to whoever is up there watching you struggle. 

“Why me?” you whisper to yourself. “It was going so well… and now I’m being ghosted?” 

You scoff. No man in his forties should be ghosting anyone. This is what younger people do instead of being straightforward, because it’s easier. For them, at least, but never for the other person. 

“You know, if I wasn’t meant to be loved, why can’t you just take the desire to be loved away from me?” you continue asking. “I’m getting fucking old, and it’s embarrassing.” 

You keep looking up at the bare sky for five minutes while tears roll down your cheeks. You don’t check your phone, either, because it hasn’t vibrated and you’re certain no one has messaged you all day. Except for maybe the coffee shop you visited a while ago that offered a free drink if you signed up for text messages. 

It’s an awful feeling being broken up with after four months without being told it’s happening. Then again, you were never official, so should it be this serious? Should you be ruining your makeup and expensive dress over someone you’ve been seeing? Someone who doesn’t have a title, but you were sure would have one sooner or later. Maybe not, but it felt serious. 

Now that you’re looking at it, everything became quite domestic by month three. It was slow the first month and a half, but it picked up speed after you took care of his agitated amputation stump. 

He called after a night shift and asked if he could spend the night with you. He didn’t say why, but you immediately knew there was something wrong. 

“Of course you can,” you said. “Is there any particular reason why?” 

You could feel how heavy his sigh was on the other side of the line. “It was a long twelve hours, and my leg is killing me.” 

He came to your house and immediately fell into your arms when you opened the door. He wrapped his arms around your stomach and sank his head into your neck. You shut the door behind him and helped him over to your couch. He didn’t want to be away from you, trying to wobble along with you as you found a few ointments and lotions he left at your place, but you forced him to sit down. 

When you were rubbing ointment into his skin, he whispered something nearly impossible to hear. You had to ask him to repeat himself. “I want you to stay.” 

“Oh…” you whispered back. “Who told you I was leaving?” 

“No one, but I need you around. I know it’s still early, but I mean it.” 

Since then, it turned into countless sleepovers – sometimes clothed, other times bare after hours of destressing sex, cooking, and having breakfast together, and packing lunch for one another. You told him it was okay to step back if he needed to, but he always said it was okay. 

“Fucking stupid,” you mumble and pick up your things from beside you. 

As you turn to go back into your house, Jack’s truck rumbles to a stop in front of you. He opens his door and runs to you, forgetting to shut it behind him. 

“Hey!” he says, out of breath and in a hurry, from what it looks like. “I’m sorry.” 

“Go home!” you shout back with a head shake. “It’s almost eight, and I’m tired.”  

He follows you, and you want to push him away, curse at him, but your heart is too beaten up to do so, so you leave the door open while going inside. You do keep telling him to go home, though. 

“I am really sorry,” he continues. “I agreed to cover a shift early this morning, and I didn’t think I was going to stay late. I kept telling everyone that I had a date and could not stay past five, but people kept coming in, and we’re understaffed and –” 

“Jack!” you finally exclaimed. “Just shut up and sit down, will you?” 

He nods and shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t dare sit on the sectional; rather opts for the fancy living room couch across from you that’s nearly uncomfortable. 

You sit across from him on the sectional and dab the stained skin beneath your eyes. “Do you want to know something?” you ask him. 

He nods. 

“I don’t care about you covering a shift. I don’t care that you had to stay late. You have a phone, and you could’ve used it to text me about it instead of having me wait nearly an hour for you. You’re forty-eight years old, for god’s sake!” 

He keeps shaking his head and agreeing to your words that come out like blades. His eyes are glassy, and you swear a tear trickles down his cheek a second later. You want to give up; kiss him and tell him you still like him, but what he did today hurt you, and you still don’t know if you should keep talking to him. 

“Are you going to leave me?” he says above a whisper. 

You laugh and whimper at the same time. “We’re not even together.” You want to cry again, so you turn your head and look at the painting hanging on your wall. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Jack, you stopped replying to me last night. Didn’t answer my good night message, didn’t text me this morning – or at all today, actually. And I had a feeling you might have been busy, so I didn’t worry at first. But you were late to pick me up tonight.” 

“Nothing justifies my actions,” he tells you, “but please let me make this up to you.” 

“How? By explaining to me what’s been happening these past few weeks? That would be better than anything up your sleeve.” 

“I got worried.” 

“Hm. Figured. So why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Because I thought I could work through it before telling you anything.” 

You shrug and begin hugging yourself, because if no one else will, you’ll have to do it.  “You’ve been able to tell me about your feelings before. Why is this any different?” 

“I want to be perfect for you.” 

“And you are!” you nearly shout. 

His lower lip wobbles, and the tears leaking out of his eyes fall onto his jeans. He places his hands on his knees and slowly moves from the sofa onto the floor. You go to stand, tell him to get up, but he cuts you off. “Just sit down, will you? I need to apologize.” 

“Do it another way,” you say. “Your prosthetic makes it hard for you to do that. Jack–” 

“Shut up,” he hisses as he continues crawling over you with a red, teary face. He crawls up to you and runs his hands up your legs and underneath your dress. His hot hands are on your ass and hooking underneath your underwear. He mumbles something that sounds like ‘you smell so good,’ which unleashes a smile across your face, but you draw it back when he speaks up. “I’m really sorry, baby.” 

“Thank you, Jack. I can tell you’re sorry, but you can’t keep doing this,” you reply. You try to hold your composure, but he’s bunching up your dress and kissing and licking your thighs. “I really like you, so when you did this, I… I don’t know. My heart almost gave out.” 

He groans in agony as he nudges your legs open and rushes to your core. He kisses your clothed pussy and moans. “I don’t mean to break your heart,” he says, kissing your pussy again. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve been a fucking mess covering for everyone and their stupid excuses at that hospital.” 

“Then don’t,” you moan out. 

He hums. You squeeze around his head. “I won’t,” he assures. “I need you. I need all of you. I need to apologize to you.” 

You nod. “Okay, Jack. Okay.” 

Jack pulls your panties down and chucks them to the side. You’re soaking wet, ruining the blanket you thankfully sat on top of. He licks up your pussy a few times before sucking on your clit – wasting no time with foreplay. It really isn’t necessary, though, because his crawling-while-sobbing act really had you horny from the jump. 

Your legs now sit on his shoulders and squeeze around his face more and more as he switches between sucking your clit and licking up and down to your hole. You can barely take what he’s doing, but the overstimulation amplifies when one of his hands runs up to your chest. 

Jack squeezes and twists your right nipple, earning a loud moan from your thoroughly coated throat. You get even louder as he uses one hand to pump his fingers inside of you. 

It’s rough, desperate, and he can’t stop fucking moaning and apologizing into your pussy. He looks pathetic from above, but it drives you mad. It also drives you to the peak of your orgasm. 

You pull at his salt-and-pepper curls as you moan out his name. 

A second later, he palms his crotch. “We need to clean you up. And I need to use your washer.” 

You pull your dress down and turn your head to him. He’s fallen back now against the living room table. “What for?” you ask. 

“Came in my pants.”