Notre Histoire - Our Story

I read allowed the story I’ve just finished. My husband, in the chair across from where I sit, is tomato red, a clear sign I had done something correct, something incredibly indecent.

After the war ended, we settled into a rather unusual schedule. He would go to work while I stayed home. I tended to things as a good wife should but in the ample hours of spare time I had, I wrote.

Writing is an art- like painting, some stories are told in the nude. These were the stories I wrote and sold to the popular magazine press that was read all through Paris. This was all under a pen name of course, as lewd writing is not the proper occupation for a married woman. My husband, however, revels in the income I bring(a penny a word), and the private readings we have together.

”‘His hand, rough from laboring in the fields, slides gently under her skirt and along her thigh. she leans against him, one hand on the wall behind her, the other resting on his cheek. His free hand, the one not currently inching its way closer to her womanhood, began to unbutton her blouse.’ Darling, are you alright?” I stop reading, looking up at my husband who has become restless in his chair. His blush had traveled to his ears, though he tried his best to hide it.

“This isn’t just any story, is it?” he asks. “It seems more like a retelling.”

He is on to me. It was a retelling. Not of some famous erotica, or a novel I had read in the past summers, but of a night we had spent together weeks ago.

The night was just beginning, as I walk with my husband to the room I had picked for us. It was our anniversary. I unlock the door, leading him in, and to the bed.

He looks at me incredulously before saying, “You wrote this about our anniversary?” I nod. “And you plan on sending it to the magazine?”

“Only if I have your permission,” I say, walking over to him, and taking a seat on his lap.

“I’ll give you my permission, only if you keep reading.”

I giggle. I wasn’t sure how he would take this, whether he would be angry or just disappointed.

“Okay,” I nod, ”‘Slowley he unbuttons the shirt, exposing her ample breasts. he stares at her for a moment, taking in her beauty, before leading her to the bed.’”

I finish the story minutes later, with the characters falling asleep in each other’s arms. My husband looks at me intently. His lips meet mine we make our way to the bedroom, creating a new story, one that will find itself in next month’s magazine issue.