Tutoring the Delinquent

That’s where we get nasty.

We’re marked by each other, inside and out.

And suddenly…I don’t know where the desire comes from, but it rockets out of me. This need for the world to know that I would die for her. That I would sell my soul to stop her from crying. Or to see her smile. The love inside of me for Iris has expanded so much that I can no longer lock it inside. My muscles are fatigued from trying. That’s where the bouts of possessiveness come from. Keeping this ferocious obsession caged.

I surge up from the bed, scooping up my wife in my arms and carrying her from the bedroom. My robe is open and all I’m wearing underneath is black briefs and I don’t give a shit. I just have to get this burning ache off my chest.

Our housekeeper has seated the journalist from Vanity Fair in the dining room and he stands up when I storm inside, holding Iris against my chest like a treasure. Which she obviously is. He blinks at us, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. But I only have eyes for my wife who is gazing up at me curiously, then knowingly, scenes from the last five beautiful years flashing in my mind. She can see them, too. See what I’m thinking. She can read my mind, like only the love of my life can.

“Write this down,” I bark at the man without breaking eye contact with Iris. “Teddy Xavier lives every single second of his life for Iris Xavier…”

THE END