Is there a writer in u? Or are you in a mood to read some short interesting stories? Here's the Story Section for all tastes.
The size of the human heart is about equal to the size of a man's fist, and I left my heart in the middle of a field. I know I was not where I was supposed to be. I just never thought I would be so careless with my heart. After ten years of marriage, I began to let my loneliness creep into my heart. It became riddled with it, infection hiding in all of the valves slowing my rhythm, trying my patients, leaking through my fingertips to try and find a connection with somebody.

At a quarter till eight, my husband leaves for work. Every once in a great while he will come back to bed after his shower and find a use for me. He will get me in some submissive position, taking advantage of my loneliness, my need to feel his love. He will hold my face in his big fists and grimace as if I am hurting him. He will then get up, clean off, and go to work. I will usually get a phone call later thanking me for what I gave him.

On Valentines day, my husband likes to celebrate the whole week. He never expects anything as far as gifts in return from me. Over the course of the week, deliveries will come to my work in the form of bouquets, candies, and gift baskets. All sorts of ridiculous things. A few years into marriage, I had asked him to stop sending the flowers. They were hard to transport home, and the cold February weather usually bit at them as I would carry them out to my car. I would have left them at work, but they were much too big. I didn't like them dying at home, withering away on my kitchen table. He would send them anyways though, loving the jealousy of the other women in my office.

Despite my wishes not being met, my loneliness would drive me to him about once a week. Most nights he was forceful with me, not treating me as if I could break. Every once in a while, he would stare at me lovingly. I'd stand in front of him without clothes while he sat on the bed. I'd jut out a hip and he would look at it tracing the blue veins inside with his finger. The blood would follow the map of veins to my heart where it would pump through, steal oxygen from my lungs, then pump back out to the rest of my body. The oxygen in the blood would give my hands the energy to reach out to him, pull his mouth closer to my hip, let him kiss the skin that shielded my veins. And on these nights, his hands were not fists. His big clumsy hands became delicate and he would lovingly rub away at the disease inside of my heart, emptying a valve or two of its loneliness, working up a rhythm with me, letting my heart pump at the same pace as his.

One Sunday night, I woke up from a dream where my husband was telling me about his girlfriend. Still half asleep, I rolled over to him. He had just gotten home from a night out with friends. When I asked him about it, he told me he could never be with another, that he loved me, that he wouldn't be with me if he didn't love me. He unclenched his fists and stroked my face. He brought his dry lips to my forehead and made the two touch. He whispered he loved me, and than he went to sleep. He went on to tease me about the girlfriend for weeks after that, and told me I could have a boyfriend if I liked.

It was a punch in the face and a break in the heart with his love. One weekend, my husband went out of town on a business trip, and I decided that there was nothing left for me to do but leave too. I traveled two towns over and went to a bar, meeting up with some people from work, including Nick, the gay guy who's office was across the hall from mine. Nick somehow gave me something my husband could not. He would hold my hands and dance with me the way my husband would not. But even in Nick I could not find everything. Nick did not have the desire to take care of a woman, and would never even think to hold the door open for me.

On the ride home, I would come to find myself in the backseat of a car with Nick while a coworker drove us home. We went through big empty fields, so empty that not even street lights were out. And I tried to get comfortable in the seat, but I was so tired and cold. Nick and I crossed our legs overlapping each other. I would lay my head on his shoulder, than lean against the car door trying to get comfortable.

Nick looked over at me and said, "That is perfect." He laid his head over my heart for a brief moment, then popped back up looking for any signs of me being uncomfortable. I was certain that he heard the loneliness congesting me. "When I was younger, when I was in high school, before my parents got divorced, my mom used to come in and sleep in my bed at night. I was like seventeen; she just didn't want to sleep in the same bed as my dad. After she had gone to sleep, I used to lay my head on her chest because it was comfortable. It wasn't anything sexual, it was just comfortable. You know, this feeling of being close to your mom." I knew exactly what he meant. I wished my own mother was there for me to lay my head on and sleep. Something to touch the loneliness.

So I sat there with Nick hitting the nail on the head, and my heart screaming for something. Screaming for Nick to combine with my husband and to love me the way that I wanted. But Nick did not make fists, he was really not forceful enough for that. He laid his head on my shoulder, and I laid my head on his. We drove home, and I knew that I had left my heart in the middle of a field. My heart ached for Nick, and it tried to stay warm with my husband. My husband came home and traced the veins on my hips, and I imagined Nick doing this without disgust on his face. I imagined my husband holding my hand and laying his head on my shoulder in the backseat of a car. My human heart, big as a man's fist, pumped away its loneliness with thoughts of men who could never be perfect, and thought of the big lonely fields where my heart recognized the emptiness that someone else could feel.