So, when it came to laying her to rest, I asked that the grave not be turfed over, and I planted meadow plants and seeded it; annuals, bi-annuals and perennials. Each week I'd visit and sit for a while on a little folding stool and hold a conversation – imaginary, but somehow real – with my dead love. I would keep an eye on the little meadow and pull out the occasional dandelion, thistle or willowherb, then, twice a year, mow it down and rake off the 'hay'. I had to explain to the cemetery gardener why I didn't want it trimmed every week; the flowers had to mature and seed, or do whatever they were supposed to do in order to return the following year, but he understood and was happy to leave that one grave to me to tend.Time passed, erratically, for me on my own. Our children were married and living elsewhere – one in Cornwall, another in Cumbria. Convenient for holidays, to be sure, but even with frequent phone calls, another reason to be lonely. At least Chris got to see them marry. “We could ... stretch out on your soft mattress and ... talk.”“Talk...” A shiver ran through her body, a sway to her hips. She opened cabinets revealing a collection of tea cups. She pulled two down and set them on a tray.“Sure, talk,” I said, a throb running through my dick. I shouldn’t be doing this, but ... She was married. She swore vows. It was a ... challenge. To seduce her... “Isn’t that why we’re here?”“To talk, or talk?” she asked. She looked over her shoulder, the smile on her lips growing. “Is that what you think is going to happen?”“When was the last time you really talked?” I asked her. “To relax. To have a ... pleasant afternoon.”“Mmm...” She opened a sealed box and measured out some powdery tea leaves, pouring them into each cup. “How long do you think it’s been?”“Too long,” I said, sauntering up to her. My dick was so hard. The way she moved. The way she shuddered. I could feel her need. This woman deserved to have pleasure. To have a young lover that cared about.
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