Sunrise to Sunset

Chet frowned at his laptop, although in a general way frowned more at the world, not the little bit of frustration he was feeling over the limitations of the graphics function of his spreadsheet program. It was Friday, mid-morning already, heading into the weekend, but he was quite frankly pissed off and frustrated at Oana's sulkiness lately.

Her latest tirade, just as he was leaving for the train, was minor, but yet another stone digging into his shoulders, added to the weight of what seemed hundreds of others accumulated over their five years of marriage. Their finances were good, better than ever, but her moods threatened to derail the last of their dwindling happiness.

Chet rose from the workstation, unable to bring his mind to bear on solving the mundane problem on his laptop, and left his office in search of coffee, hoping for a caffeine driven respite from both work and home. He grabbed his mug, emblazoned with "Cel mai sexy sot," a gift from Oana on their first wedding anniversary. It meant "Sexiest Husband" in her native Romanian, but now it seemed a darkly humorous joke. They hadn't been intimate for three months now, as she grew more incensed at his failure to get...what?

When arguing, she would often begin spouting Romanian, which he spoke, of course, none of. It only served to contribute to the gap between them, now a crevasse, and growing wider it seemed daily. All he felt he could do was comfort her, but he had no idea what to comfort her about, and childishly he turned to harsh words. Grimly, he shook his head, knowing he still loved his fiery raven-haired girl, but wondering if they were no longer destined to be together.

"Heya, Chet!" He turned to see Wendy, the Acquisitions manager, a very sexy twenty-ish blonde. Her hair was cut short, in a unisex style once called a pageboy, but on her it was very feminine. She had an elfin face that he'd seen transform in a moment from innocent to wickedly lustful, and a voice that suggested, even promised, untold delights. His thoughts had turned to her more than once, and just this morning, in the shower, he had jacked off to the thought of her naked body pressed against his, shooting his load as he imagined gazing down into her eyes as she sucked him off, and fantasized about her swallowing every drop, slurping it up with love in her eyes, the way Oana once had.

"Wendy! How are things?" He wasn't sure if she sensed his attraction to her, but she probably had any number of men who wanted, or could have, her, so he assumed she probably didn't distinguish between any particular source of attention.

"Same shit, different day, Chet. You look preoccupied." It was intended as a conversation starter, and a tempting one.

He didn't want to say anything about his troubles, especially to a woman he, and probably every other man and a few women in the building, lusted after. They had shared drinks, and nothing else, at a conference two months ago, talking about inconsequential matters, mostly work. If they went for drinks now, he wasn't sure he would be able to keep from talking too much, or diving into bed if she so much as crooked a finger to him.

"Yeah, plenty of shit to go around." He sipped his coffee, and then made an excuse to head back to the relative safety of his office. If only Oana understood what he was going through, it would all be alright.

Oana wanted to cry, but from long experience knew it would only make her temples ache, and her face puffy. She was furious at Chet, and at herself, for the argument, a stupid battle in what she suspected was a losing war. Her love for him was as potent as ever, but he could be so unaware. Even after nearly a decade in his life and his bed, she felt like they were communicating less and fighting more.

She had taken the day off from the gallery, and now sat across from her grandmother, her bunica, cradling a teacup at the small kitchen table. The two of them had immigrated to the United States twelve years ago after the accident that had claimed the rest of their family. The old woman had somehow managed to save them both during the collapse, and then find their way onto a boat bound for the New World.

Back then, everything had seemed possible after the tragedy. A new country, opportunities she probably would never have found in Europe, and then, as if in answer to her prayers, Chet. Handsome, intelligent and loving, she had never conceived of such happiness. Marrying him had been something only a complete fool would have refused, but now it was all unravelling. If only she could make him understand...

"Oana, is it worse?"

"Oh, much worse, bunica. He hasn't touched me in months, and hasn't kissed me in almost as long. I want him so much, but...but, I...don't know why this is going so wrong." The tears neared the surface, but she sniffed them back, not wanting to cry in front of the older woman again.

"I can help."

"No, bunica! You can't talk to him for me! This is something I have to do myself. Fuck!"

Her grandmother brought her hand to Oana's face, more than a pat, less than a slap. "You are a lady, and you do not use gutter language. I will not speak to him. You will speak to Chet. With my help."

Oana's eyes flicked downwards, ashamed at her cursing. She had become Americanized and more of a cosmopolitan, which didn't seem so wonderful now, with her marriage and her life crumbling. "I'm sorry, bunica."

"You are forgiven. Now, I have thought on your troubles, and you must do this. It will either save your marriage, or end it." She pulled a small pouch, gray with a yellow drawstring, out of her apron. "This is what you will do..." The old woman explained for just under two minutes.

Oana didn't want to hope, but maybe this would work, somehow. "Yes, bunica."

It was already dusk, and Chet had once looked forward to the weekends with his gorgeous wife, Saturday and Sunday mornings in bed, naked and making love loudly on into the afternoon. Oana had been eager to learn all about how to please Chet, and tried things she had only heard whispered at home in the old country. Her native curiosity had given way to full-blown enthusiasm, and she had changed from a shy girl, new to the ways of sex, to an avid participant, then to assertive, if not overtly aggressive. He had, for his part, been eager to turn the keys to her heart and the rest of her body, and tried many things to please her, the vast majority of which had once worked.

He knew how the weekend would go, how they would sit at home, politely not speaking to avoid whatever dispute would get them going, going to bed hours apart, eager to evade the sight or the feel or the sound of one another. She had even taken to locking the bathroom when she showered and changed, though he didn't know she felt the same hurt and longing he felt when she did that.

Steeling himself, he walked in the door and set his briefcase on the floor just inside. Shrugging off his windbreaker, he deposited both in the guest closet, and walked into the kitchen. Oana was there, of course, but the rest surprised him. He had missed the scent of her family's goulash recipe, but it hit his nose and stomach the minute he entered the kitchen.

Oana had done her hair up. He could also smell the faint lavender and jasmine of her favorite bubble bath on her skin, and she was wearing a silk robe. It clung to her skin, and lack of seams or subtle creases revealed that she wore nothing underneath. She smiled at him, a little shyly, as if they were first dating. "Chet, I'm so glad you are home!" She threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly, then kissed him on his lips, a quick peck.

Stunned by the turnaround of his wife's mood, Chet didn't quite know what to do. He kissed back, but she pulled away with a wicked grin, as she had done so many times when they first dated in college, her way of telling him she would "give up the goodies," but on her timetable. "Two things, iubitul meu." He knew her meaning, "my lover," again words she had spoken often before and after their wedding vows, and not at all recently. "First, get cleaned up. A shower. Then put on your robe and bring your appetite for dinner. Then, we talk."

"Do I really need to shower?"

Oana looked coolly at him, one hand on her hip while the other stirred dinner. "Shower. The water will cleanse you, as we will cleanse many things this weekend. Go!"

Chet shaved afterwards, too, just for good measure. The thick burgundy robe extended to his knees, and down to his elbows, and he dispensed, as Oana had, with underwear. Maybe she decided to make the best of things, and just ignore her frustration with him. He could do the same, he was sure, and knew that at the end of the day, any day, he loved her and she loved him. He hoped it was enough.

Oana had the lights off, and three candles illuminated the room, set in an equilateral triangle on the table, the apex towards him, and the base, two candles, on her side. She served him first, then herself, and they started to eat. It was delicious as always, and softened his own exasperation almost completely. Even so, they ate in silence, casting their eyes tentatively towards each other. Chet noticed her robe was open to her waist, and her nipples were only just hidden behind the rose patterned fabric.

Afterwards, she motioned for him to stay seated as she cleaned the dishes and placed them in the dishrack, and put the remaining goulash in their fridge. The candles had burned halfway down before she joined him at the table. He waited for her to speak first, deciding that she obviously had something to say, and that dinner was a preamble.

"Chet, I love you. I always have, iubitul meu. These past weeks have been difficult for both of us, and you need to know, I need to speak, my decision. I have decided to stay, to continue to be your wife. But there are things to say, and to do, to cement that bond. Do you agree?"

"Always, but...were you leaving me?"

Her smile lit the room even more than the candles. "No, Chet. I feared you were leaving me, my darling. I'm just saying I'm going to go to war..."

She was still mastering certain idioms. "Do you mean fight?"

"No, go to war. I'm sure you've noticed other women since we stopped being naked together, showering and making love all the time. Beautiful women who want you to bed them, wake up with them and start all over fucking them all morning, all day, as we should do again. I will not permit this, and I'm not just saying no to them, but yes to you, my husband."

Chet blinked. Oana was firm, resolute, and this was the most passionate she had been about their marriage in at least two years. This was the woman he had fallen in love with. "I'll do whatever it takes, Oana." This was also the first time he'd spoken her name in weeks, he realized.

She smiled again, relief apparent in her eyes. "Good. We have trouble understanding each other, knowing each other's wants and needs, true?"

"Yes." That had been, more than the frustration over meaningless little squabbles, at the root of his troubles, and also hers, he now understood.

Oana looked at him lovingly. "We will understand each other better. Going forward." She had used one of his favorite terms, an idiom that she had taken the time to fully understand for their talk and what came next. He felt his love for her begin to grow again.

She poured two glasses of wine, filling them halfway; he hadn't noticed the bottle tucked away on one of the other seats, nor the glasses. It was rich and red, smelling of berries and cinnamon. She set his in front of him, then hers. He noticed that his was centered on the apex of the triangle, and hers in the very center of the base on her side. "Wait to drink."

From the folds of her robe, she pulled a small drawstring pouch, grey, with a lemon yellow string, and opened it. She took a small measuring spoon and put it inside almost reverently, pulling out less than a quarter of a teaspoon of fragrant yellow powder, redolent with the scent of cardamom, cinnamon and other sweet-smelling odors he couldn't identify. She then put it in her glass, and a second in his. Pulling the string tight, she stowed the pouch back in her robe, and stirred each glass with the spoon.

"They called my grandmother, my bunica, a witch. Wise woman is more correct. I told you she was responsible for saving me from the building that collapsed around my family."

"Magic, Oana?" He was skeptical, but willing still to try anything to have her back.

"Magic, feh. She just knows things. This is an old Romanian remedy, a gypsy thing. Very rare, and she has been gathering and mixing it for over two months, since I told her about our fights. She had it for me this morning, and told me not to waste any of our time." A small chuckle. "I think she would like it if we stayed together and grew our family, Chet."

An aphrodisiac, he scoffed inwardly. Still, if Oana wanted to try this, believed in its efficacy, and if it saved their marriage, their relationship, he would try it. "So what now?"

Her answer was to stand up and remove her robe, letting it slip off her shoulders to the floor, and stand naked before him. She was as lovely as the first time he laid eyes on her, slightly dark skin, full breasts, and the thick, luxurious triangle of curly hair at her crotch, even darker than her hair or eyes. He had often told her that an earring and a patchwork dress were all she needed to play the part of a gypsy for real, knowing that was a part of her own culture, even if not her actual lineage. She had smiled then, and he believed it even more now, watching her grace and poise.

"Stand, my husband, and get naked." Her smile was lustful, but she made no move to reach for him.

Chet rose from his chair, let his robe fall to the floor, and he saw her eye him up and down with sincere appreciation. His erection was at half-mast, as if it was waiting for a signal or permission to rise to full attention, and biding its time meanwhile.

She stirred both glasses again, and handed him his. "Sit again, Chet. Don't drink yet. I have to say a chant. A prayer," she amended quickly. Her voice dropped an octave as she intoned the words she had practiced with her bunica hours ago. She didn't know quite what would happen, but she was eager to try anything, determined to save their marriage.

Răsărit până la apus;

Plimbați-vă unul în pantofii celuilalt.

"Now drink, my love, iubitul meu." She drained her glass, and so did he. He stepped around the table and took her in his arms. She felt his cock straining at her belly, and gave herself over to a long kiss before pulling away.

"Not yet, my darling." He heard the soft 'k' sound, like Natasha in the Bullwinkle cartoons. "We go to bed, and we sleep."

"Sleep?" He wanted her right now, but kept himself restrained. "But I'm ready for you now, my love!"

Regretfully, she looked at his hard-on. "Old Romanian folk remedy. Or fuck remedy." The wine and the powder made her a little loopy, and she giggled. "No, Chet, we go to bed and sleep. It is the weekend, my favorite English word, because I spend them with you. But we do not get to fuck tonight, my husband. In the morning at sunrise."

His erection was almost painful now, and he wanted desperately to plunge his cock inside her, and hear her moans as they both came. The scent of her pussy and the thick black pubic thatch was warm and sweet in the kitchen air, and he needed to clear the table and take her on it, the first time in three months and the first time of what would be a very long, joyous weekend.

As if reading his mind, she said almost apologetically. "I want you too, Chet. I want you inside me. If you were to touch me I would explode, and you could do almost anything with me, to me, and I would crave it. But now we go to bed and sleep. Then in the morning we will begin to understand and learn about each other. Convenit?"

He didn't know the word, but understood her intent. She followed him to bed, and they crawled in beside each other. She was careful not to touch him right now; her bunica had been clear on that point. They desired each other more than anything, and needed to withhold their desires for the whole night for this to work. Not even kissing him goodnight was allowed, lest it break the carefully crafted spell before it started its work. "And no thinking of this Wendy, Chet. You whispered her name a couple of times this past week when sleeping. She is one of the ones I'm going to war with. No sleeping with the enemy, or masturbating to her. Agreed?"

In truth, Chet was overcome with exhaustion now, although he had considered, briefly, jacking off after Oana fell asleep. "Agreed," he murmured. In moments he was asleep, and she followed only moments later.

Chet woke up, disoriented, barely remembering the previous night. Opening his eyes just a crack, he saw first light glimmering under the blinds, and remembered she had promised him they would fuck at sunrise. He noticed he was facing the wrong way, and had somehow wound up on Oana's side of the bed. She would be pissed if they had fucked in their sleep, and the fact he didn't remember having done so didn't mean a thing, according to the thick feeling between his ears, and the sluggish feeling throughout his body.

Eyes closed again, he rolled over, and noticed an odd sensation at his chest, like he was wearing a too-bulky sweatshirt. He knew he was still naked, and the sheets felt wonderful on his bare skin, but he didn't feel a stiffening hard-on. Thinking it was the wine, he reached out to Oana, on his side of the bed. She was naked too, facing away from him, and he felt her bottom, surprised momentarily at how it didn't feel as soft or rounded as usual. This, too, he put down to the wine.

Oana stirred at his touch, and he felt her roll over. There was a pause, then she gasped, a small intake of air, loud in their bedroom "Ce naiba?" The voice was soft, but no less shocked, maybe even horrified. It was also undeniably masculine, and Chet's eyes shot open.

He saw himself, but different, before realizing he'd only seen himself naked in a mirror, so of course it would be different looking at himself directly. Shaking his head sharply, he looked again. His eyes, his body's eyes, were wide and staring at him. He looked down at his own body, suspecting what he would see, and he was right.

Instead of his hairy chest, he saw two full breasts, and soft downy hairs on his arms and legs. Instead of the erection he would ordinarily expect, he saw a lush, black bush, and he knew if he reached down and touched it, he would feel wetness and a delightfully responsive clitoris. He also felt like he should be recoiling in horror at the changes he and Oana had undergone, but he felt an unaccustomed acceptance, almost a serenity, despite his brain's feeble attempts to freak out. Oana looked similarly tranquil.

"Iubitul meu." It was her words, and his voice.

Still a little woozy, he said, "Babe?" His words, her voice.

He watched his arms reach over and caress his breasts, and her body move closer, encircling his waist. He looked down and saw his erect cock, pressing against his bush. "I didn't know, darling." Again the soft 'k' at the end.

"What did your grandmother say? Exactly?" He could barely put the words together, and he suspected that his relatively panic-free responses so far could be chalked up to the numbing effect of whatever they had imbibed with the wine. Everything seemed fresh and new, and disturbingly normal, because they should both be basket cases at this turn of events. Somehow he was able to process the change, and knew with utter certainty the powder and the wine, maybe the incantation too, had made this happen, and made them accept it.