Revolution
You had it all planned out. You go to college, you graduate, you travel the world and work at crappy jobs and love it just because good lord, you'll be in f*cking Belgium when you're doing that crappy job.
Then you meet Marshall, and you realize you've been kidding yourself. You can't go out there alone. You're a pint-sized woman, who's used to certain comforts. You're meant for this. You're meant to settle down with a good man, have the kind of job a good woman has, have his good children. That's what you were really born for.
You tried, once, not to be. You did. You had to run all the way across the continental America, to realize that's not true at all. You couldn't be exciting Lily Aldrin, single and exotic. You're Lily Aldrin, Marshall Erikkson's girlfriend, fiancé, wife – pick one. Those are your choices.
And those are great choices too. You have a mortgage in the greatest city in the world, a husband making indecent amounts of money, and a wardrobe to match. On paper, it's perfect.
Only. The condo smells all the time.
Only. Your wardrobe is bought with money you don't have.
Only. You realize horribly, six years into your marriage, sixteen years into being Marshall's girl, that perhaps true love doesn't last forever.
It starts off slow. He wants to sleep on Tuesday night, rather than make love because he's so tired baby, and there's always tomorrow night. Urgency fades into the complacency of knowing there's the next time, and the time after that.
At first, you told yourself it couldn't go on forever anyway. A man's sexual peak drops off after some time. Its just nature.
Then. You notice things. Like how he never talks about saving the environment anymore. Instead, he talks about the latest merger he was a part of. Talks about Paulson and how the asshole spends his time on the golfing range while Marshall is actually doing the paperwork. He talks about that new car he wants, and the way his boss complimented his tie that morning.
You try to travel. You holiday with your husband. Funny, but you can't help but feel like the locals are laughing at the stupid Americans and oh god you never wanted to be that tourist but you are. And your husband only wants to sit in the sports bar, in any city you're in. He smiles absently and ruffles your hair when you mention the art museums.
Alone, those halls of great art can't help but feel empty.
Cry Baby Cry
You watch him at McLaren's. Hands caressing a firm thigh here. Squeezing a miniscule waist there.
And you think to yourself, you've only ever had sex with one man.
For some reason, that's not even close to being comforting.
I Want You(She's so Heavy)
It starts off slow.
He spends more time drinking with you, talking with you each night, before going over and chatting up the latest conquest by the bar.
He tells you he'd rather talk about something else besides the challenges of being the intern at the latest magazine/investment firm/television studio, and how hard it is not to be taken seriously because one was young and hot.
He'd rather let them get nice and drunk first; meanwhile, he'll talk to you.
You both drink less now, than you used to. You couldn't be twenty-somethings forever after all, and his doctor has told him that if he didn't stop his lifestyle, he'd be dead by fifty, much less picking up girls at eighty-three.
You watch his eyes watch the girls though, and try not to be envious of them for their youth, their confidence, their beauty.
One night, you both laugh as you reminisce about how he had thought you were too hot for Marshall.
Accidentally, he says,
"God you're so beautiful."
Not "were".
"Are".
And you've never seen him blush ever. You giggle like a school girl, and drink your beer.
He smiles bashfully, and it should have been awkward, but it isn't.
The next night, before you leave your empty condo, after you get the call from Marshall that tells you he's going to be late – again – you stop yourself. You go back to your bedroom and change your clothes.
It's a dress that's modest, but shows off your still slender legs. Shows off the flawless ivory of your arms. You never thought you'd wear this dress, but here you are. Facing the mirror, for the first time in ten years, you put on lipstick and mascara.
When he sees you that night, his eyes widen slightly, as does his grin. When he goes home with a red head in a black dress, you laugh to yourself.
His touch becomes more frequent, and his words keep slipping over themselves. A careless brush of his hand here, a foot knocking accidentally against your bare legs there.
You think you should feel guilty, but you're more guilty about the fact that you don't feel any remorse at all.
Increasingly, it's as though the girl at the end of the night is like an afterthought, rather than the prize for him. He can hardly make himself go up to the bar anymore, caught up in your conversation about the ten best films in the last decade.
Until one night, he doesn't leave with another woman at all. One night, he walks you to your empty home, and each step seems harder for him than the last. Your heart thrums inside you, furiously beating, but you refuse to let that stop you from leaning in for a kiss outside your door like a high school student.
"I…we can't do this." He says, looking pained. He slept with a best friend's ex-lover once, but this…this is different. This is not pretending to be grown up anymore. This is the both of you actually grown-up, about to do something that could lead to some actual consequences. Divorce and courthouses being two of them.
You've only slept with one person, and being so close to Barney, smelling him, seeing that look in his eyes that sends you into a spiral of warm heat the both of you are trapped in…
You kiss him, and his arms wrap around you. It's like a thunderstorm crashing through your mind, as you realize this is what it really is like to be kissed. This is everything you had imagined a kiss was, before you had ever kissed anyone. His lips move softly over your's, gentle and demanding all at once.
His hands creep under your dress, the new one you knew he'd like. He finds your ass and tightens his grip, nails digging into your skin. With a growl, he has you pushed against your front door and you gasp in pleasure at his desire. A quick fumble at his waist, and the sound of a zipper later, you feel his cock pressing against your thigh. His hands move quickly and push your damp panties aside.
Before you could get a chance to reconsider, which you never would in a hundred years, he's in you and wow, geez, god, this is amazing. He's fucking you into the door, in your hallway, and all you can think is yes, yes, yes god yes, fuck, yes.
When he comes, his face contorts in a way you can't help but love, but at the same time, find distinctively unattractive.
You do it again the next night, when the both of you skip the bar altogether, and fuck on his living room floor like a randy pair of teenagers.
"Christ." He says, and kisses your neck reverently.
"I know." You say.
"What have I done?" he whispers, moving down your body and taking a nipple into his mouth. You make a contented noise.
"Nothing I didn't want you to." You assure him.
"I don't…I don't want to stop this." He says earnestly. "But I don't want to hurt anybody."
He's such a child still, and for a moment, you feel like a pervert, taking advantage of someone who was so innocent on the inside, no matter what he pretended.
He kisses you again, and you think of all the girls he's woken up with, and how you're the only one he's ever invited back.
His fingers crawl downwards, teasing, flicking and they find their way into your hot centre and it's awesome, to borrow a word.
Long, Long, Long
When you leave your husband, he screams and shouts and yes, he cries. But after you move out, he never calls. Never sends flowers. Instead, he says one day, as you're packing your life away into empty cardboard boxes you got from the grocery store,
"You should come back, before I change my mind and move on from you."
He doesn't speak to Barney again, who realizes after a while that he never had much to say to Marshall anyway.
In My Life
You're Lily Aldrin, divorcee. You live in an apartment with a shower that doesn't quite work all of the time. You quit your job as a teacher, and currently, you're trying to be a writer in a small community paper. It doesn't pay well, but it's still something.
On weekends, you hole up with Barney and listen to records that sometimes skip. A lot. You argue about the things that really matter; about why Stairway to Heaven was not the greatest Zeppelin song ever. You both agree that Citizen Kane kinda sucks.
It's not a perfect life, but really, it is. It's…awesome.