He does not think of her often.
She would be disappointed if she knew how little.
Yet today, listening to a song on his iPhone while the white, cold, snowy English countryside is gliding past the train window, the past touches him.
The music reminds him of those now forever-lost days when they shared their lives. When they pressed themselves close together in the candlelight of friendly restaurants, when they cooked ambitious meals in the intimate warmth of her beautiful apartment, when they curled up on the sofa and watched the late night news.
He remembers the concerts, the perfection of together, lost in the moment. He remembers the wine tasting, the galleries, the short holiday by the rain-swept coast, the glorious, silent journey across her city in the wicker basket hanging from a soaring balloon.
He remembers the ropes, the whip, the leather cuffs, the blindfold, the toys. The candle wax, the ice, the plugs, the pegs, her dancing naked for him, her eyes locked and lost in his.
He remembers waking next to her, her gorgeous, natural scent, the bending of her warm body into his, burying his face in her tousled hair and cupping her sweet breasts in his hands.
Her nipples still sleepy, yet stirring against his palms.
The song changes. The memory is lost to the bleached English countryside.
He hopes she is happy.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Jack Vettriano