Elizabeth’s Bio:

Elizabeth Barton has been writing stories for just about as long as she can remember. After attaining degrees in psychology and nutritional sciences, she began work as a medical writer and editor. She participated in the Writer’s Loft workshop in Chicago for more than four years and has recently begun seriously pursuing a career in fiction writing. Elizabeth has dozens of short stories in varying degrees of completion and is polishing a draft of her first novel. She lives in Chicago with her husband, Ian, and two cats, Roxie and Gordon. When she is not writing, Elizabeth is an avid reader and enjoys travel, theater, and wine. She also loves to dabble in, but never master, various pursuits including drama, sewing, painting, ceramics, and stained glass work. She believes that every experience can be an inspiration. She recently won third place in WOW’s spring flash fiction contest for her story, The Wedding March.

Not Tonight

By Elizabeth Barton

 

I'd had one of those days that just drained the life out of me. I fell into bed, thankful that sleep would soon provide a brief escape from my life of drudgery. As I lay there, just beginning to drift off, I felt Ben inching towards me. He wrapped one arm around me and started to kiss my neck. I could have pretended to be asleep, but if I did, he'd probably just try to wake me up anyway. "Please honey, not tonight. I'm dead tired."

He didn't stop. "I'm sure you can stay up a little while," he whispered as his tongue flicked my ear.

"No, seriously. It's been a long day, and I'm exhausted." He probably thought I was saying it just to avoid having sex. He always took it so personally, but I was just tired—the kind of tired where it hurts to keep your eyes open.

"Please." His hands began to reach up under my nightgown.

"No," I said softly. "Tomorrow night. I promise."

"God, sorry." He pulled his hands away. "I'm sorry making love to me is such a chore."

"It's not like that." How did he always do this? How did he always turn me into the bad guy?

"Come on," he said, moving closer to me and touching me again. "Can't you do this for me?"

"I told you. I'm tired."

"You don't have to do anything," he told me. "You can just lay there."

I don't know how that was supposed to entice me, but that's essentially what our sex life had become—a series of lackluster encounters that he guilted me into. I had no energy for passion anymore, but I didn't have the energy to fend him off either. He would wear me down and make me feel like the worst girlfriend in the world if I said no.

"Please," he said again, already tugging at my panties.

"Okay," I said and hated myself for giving in. I was just reinforcing the idea that if he whined and begged enough, I would give him what he wanted. I stared up at the ceiling as he went to work, his fingers and his mouth exploring me. A lump grew in my throat, and I tried to swallow it. Crying would only make things worse. I should quit feeling sorry for myself. I'd given in, but it wasn't as if he was raping me. If I really wanted him to stop, he would. Probably.

I winced as he entered me, and I bit my lip to stifle a sob. Tears began to roll down my face. Did he realize? Did he care? If anything, he would probably make me feel guilty for crying and making him feel bad. Maybe I deserved this humiliation for not being strong enough to stand up to him.

My body tensed. It wouldn't be long now. That was the one consolation. He never lasted all that long. How pathetic—that was the best thing I could say about having sex with him.

When he was done, he kissed my tear-streaked face. "Thank you," he said. "I love you." He rolled over and fell asleep almost immediately. I stared at him, watching his body slowly move up and down with each breath. I picked up my pillow. If I could just smother him with it, he would never humiliate me like that again. Instead, I threw the pillow back on the bed and went into the bathroom where I could cry in private so I wouldn't wake him.

***