I Can't Say It

I Can’t Say It

Lyndsey was standing at my front door with gifts in her hand. It was my birthday. She was once my lustful fantasy and now my forbidden love. The first moment I met her, Lyndsey made my nostrils flare. 

We met at the corporate office. Lyndsey was a vendor, and I was an executive. She had long strawberry-blonde hair and beautiful green eyes. She was a former ballerina - athletic, muscular, and petite.

When she would drop by my office, I would disguise my attraction. I struggled openly, panting, stammering, and breathless. I would watch her walk down the hall, desperately hiding my erection.

I had never felt that way for another woman in my entire life. 

I loved my wife. I wanted to live with her for the rest of my life. Our intimacy was gone. She was having an affair, and I knew about it. I gave her the dignity to find her way. I was hoping she would return to my loving arms, but when she started to come home later and later, I knew it was time for me to let her go. I offered my wife marriage counseling, but she refused. I still struggled with quitting. I had a loving relationship with her kids. I wanted to protect them from the pain of separation and loss that I endured from a broken home. 

Lyndsey would enter my daydreams- filled with erotic, lustful pleasures. I didn't know what to do about this. She was married, and I respected that relationship, especially after what I had recently experienced.

She would call me on the phone with news regarding orders I had placed. My hips would thrust, overwhelmed with a hormonal fire, and I was left breathless- consumed by her feminine energy.

Lyndsey phoned one Friday afternoon. She missed her delivery deadline. She was upset and quiet; I could feel the tension in her words.

I pulled over to the side of the road. I am an empath. I refined this skill from having an alcoholic and abusive mother. I can feel when someone is suffering, even when they try to hide it. 

"Are you ok? I know we don't know each other, but I could sense something is troubling you. You want to talk about it?" I asked calmly.

She paused and exhaled, "My husband is a liar!"

I gasped. My fantasy sharing a very private part of her life. I had to remind myself not to be a shitty opportunist but rather a loving and understanding human being. I spoke slowly and deliberately, carefully filtering my ego from the dialogue.

"I'm sorry,” I replied solemnly. “Lying is painful, especially for those you love and trust. What happened?" 

"He always lies to me and then gaslights me! My husband is a narcissist, and he's a psychopath! I'm afraid to leave him!" she screamed desperately. 

A tear fell from my eyes. My fantasy, tormented, Lyndsey's loving essence- destroyed.

She continued, "He was supposed to help me so that I could get these promotions to you on time, but he's drinking at the bar, lying about what he's doing. We have kids to pick up. He is always drunk, always lying. I am so tired of this." 

She stopped briefly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that." Lyndsey cleared her throat.

I didn't know what to say. I usually share something from my experiences to comfort someone hurting, but this was new territory for me. I reminded myself to keep my personal feelings out of this. 

I replied, "It's ok. I know how you feel. My marriage is a disaster. It hurts. Sometimes, I can't breathe or sleep. I barely eat."

"Yeah," she whispered.

"Look, I always order my promotions well in advance. You have time. Can you bring the products in next week?" I offered.

"Perfect! Yes! Thank you!" Lyndsey exhaled.

I didn't want this conversation to end. I embraced my phone against my ear and reached deep into my heart. My eyes were closed.

"Anytime you need to talk, please call. Maybe we can help each other off the ledge we are currently standing on."

"Awe, that is sweet, thank you. Sorry for vomiting all over your phone."

I hung up and headed to my empty five-bedroom house. My kids, pets, and wife are all living without me. I would typically go to the gym and exercise until I was utterly exhausted, but tonight, I lay in bed, thinking about our conversation.

Lyndsey sent me a photo. She was wearing a giant squirrel head while driving. She was comforting me- trying to make me laugh. I cried. I could see a beautiful soul, discarded, wasted, by a man who was incapable of loving her but would kill to protect his own ego.

I kissed the shadows living in my bedroom, imagining her lips pressed against mine. I embraced my phone tightly across my chest as I finally drifted into a deep sleep.

We started texting. We would exchange funny memes, jokes, and music. We routinely shared the events of our day. She was filling the emptiness inside of me. A pain so debilitating that I would remain crouched when left alone.

A few months later, in front of my employees, I schemed to invite her to an overseas destination where we routinely take our biggest customers. It was common to invite vendors, and I did not let Lyndsey or my employees know my real intentions. My employees respected her and encouraged her to attend. She was beside herself and agreed. I made sure to invite her husband, but I had a strong feeling she would not bring him.

She texted me a photo of her bags packed three days before leaving.

My divorce was a few weeks from being final when we landed on that Caribbean island with a thousand of our customers. I oversaw the event. We spent millions, and I threw parties that would make Gatsby blush.

I asked Lyndsey to dinner. It was a French restaurant on the beach but far enough away from my clients. This was the first trip without my wife, and she had made friends. The perception would have been I hadn't properly grieved.

We shared wine and great food and decided to take a taxi to a bar. We drank more, we danced, and then I leaned in and kissed her.

Lyndsey's eyes were softened, wet, close to tears, "Are you sure you want to do this?" 

"I can't help myself. I wanted to kiss you the moment I met you." I confessed. 

She reached for my hand and guided me upstairs to a secluded table dimly lit at the corner of the bar. She asked a passerby for a cigarette.

Lyndsey climbed into my lap, and we took a few drags from the cigarette and kissed. I felt the weight of all my pains lift from inside me as I consumed her delicate breaths. I reached under her blouse to touch the small of her back. Lyndsey's skin and tender kisses recharged a wounded spirit. 

I don't know how long we were there, but no cab service was available when we decided to return to the hotel. We bribed a young local couple to drive us back to the other side of the island. We had the car park a block from the hotel, and we secretly separated to avoid being noticed together.

An hour later, she knocked at my door. We proceeded to share the night.

My ex-wife had convinced me that I had sexual issues- that I must have been gay while she slept with her lover.

I was nervous. I confessed to Lyndsey, "I don't know what to expect. It's been so long, and I want you to know it's not you if I have any problems. Please understand that."

She placed a hand on my cheek and kissed me. It was a beautiful night. 

I disappeared from the group with Lyndsey for about 12 hours. We began to sober in the morning.

We were both overwhelmed with emotion. It had been a long time since we were free to express our loving intimate selves. Her face flushed. She placed the palm of her hand over her eyes and cried, "We have a problem. We can't do this. My husband is a psychopath. We can't do this."

I pulled myself from her and sat up in bed. I wanted to comfort her. 

"I understand. This whole thing is complicated," I replied softly.

She covered herself, her hair frazzled from sweat and my incessant pulling. She looked down, and I could feel her struggling. 

"Are you hungry? Do you want some coffee?" I offered.

I made coffee while she proceeded to dress. I had the Presidential Suite at a 5-star hotel, gifted to me by the owner of this multi-million-dollar company. He would have fired me if he discovered I had slept with a married woman.

Lyndsey was scheduled to take the next flight home in the early afternoon. We hugged. I kissed her on the forehead and thanked her. I didn't tell her this, but her intimacy reminded me I was still an able man.

The next day, while I was at a dinner with clients, I received a text from Lyndsey. She had sent me nude photos. I nearly choked on my food. We texted back and forth while I was with clients; my boss later reprimanded me for my behavior. I never play on my phone when entertaining clients, but I didn't care. I wanted more of her attention.

Several weeks later, I returned home, and she met me at an obscure location during my lunch break. She played with me under the table, invited me to her car, and we made love again.

We met in parks, parking lots, and hotels. Our love affair continued for several months. 

Lyndsey was at my door with a leather jacket and red velvet cake; I felt a great warmth filling all my empty spaces inside. We would make love for hours- pleasing each other, taking time with each other. I told her that I loved her. She would kiss me- not returning the obligatory I love you.

Lyndsey would leave my house and call me the minute she backed out of my driveway. 

"You have to stay on the phone with me. I'm emotional," Lyndsey confessed.

I remember sitting up in bed, filled with tears, wondering when my wife would return home. And now I have the most beautiful angel who pleads to me not to let her go. I thought the Universe had sent me my fantasy to heal the mortal wounds that nearly took my life. 

I had no problem staying on the phone with her. It always saddened me that she would have to leave. I slept in my bed alone. I wanted to hold onto her tightly. Lyndsey was the only awareness that made all my thoughts irrelevant.

She texted me late that night and confessed her love for me. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

It was also one of the saddest moments of my life.

Several hours later, while she slept on the couch, her husband, sensing her drifting from his clutches, read her texts. 

She sent me the following message:

I'm sorry. I can't see you again. I made a mistake. My husband read our texts. He is upset. You're not safe. Do not text or phone again. He is threatening to hurt you. Please don't call!

My heart was torn from my chest. I felt like my life was just one long, cursed journey. An empath, brimming with love but uncontrolled forces, refused to let me share the only treasure I own. That is my loving soul.

When two people truly love one another, no force is strong enough to keep them apart.

I saw her several months later. Lyndsey was dropping off promotions. I had delegated that work to an employee so I would purposely not see her, but one day, they were all out of the office, and we coincidentally ran into each other again. 

I helped her unload her packages. I made some small talk. I asked about her kids and how her business was doing. She smiled at me. I can feel that she still had feelings for me.

I then made another mistake.

"I miss you, Lyndsey." 

She surveyed the room to make sure no one was looking and kissed me. 

We managed to find a few hours a month sharing my bed. We loved each other, but the fear of being caught never allowed us to completely be ourselves.

I would gaze into her green-loving eyes and see her loving energy. I was always emotional when she was next to me. When we made love, I would press my lips against her and whisper, "I love you."

She blurted the last time we were intimate, "I can't say it. I almost fucked up shouting your name in the middle of the night. Luckily, he was passed out and didn't hear me. I can't say it anymore. I'm frightened."

A few years passed, and I had to let her go. My own selfish needs were tormenting her daily life. She calls occasionally. We talk about life, but she never says, "I love you."