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Page 37.
 Later in the night, they stirred in their sleep. David reached out for her. The bed felt cool, the sheets soft. Still mostly asleep, they rubbed their legs and thighs and bellies together, enjoying the friction of smooth skin on smooth skin under warm blankets. He kissed her nipples, alternating from one to the other. She pulled at him gently, cuddling and caressing him. He kissed her below, inhaling sweet, clean dew on pungent flowers, or sea fog with just a tang of roiling, overpowering life secrets. “Hurry,” she whispered. With a cry of hunger, he entered. She turned her head sideways and pulled a pillow over her mouth to muffle the wail that escaped as he rocked in her. They were perfect for each other, he and she, rising toward the sun together, she sobbing, he thrusting hungrily but with a hand gently under her head lest she hurt herself against the headboard—until all the passion was spent. They lay together, afraid to say I love you—just yet.
David awoke hearing the sound of a trash truck somewhere. He was naked, and stuck to the sheet. As he peeled the sheet back, he saw Tory’s sleeping figure and marveled that she was really as long and beautiful as he had imagined. She stirred, yawning, and touched her fingertips to her eyes. She turned so he was in her peripheral vision, and said “Hi.” She turned fully to regard him, as though this were the moment of truth.
Maxie was home. She knocked on the door and yelled that she was making breakfast for everyone.
“Hi,” David said. He lay back and pulled Tory to him. “You are beautiful.” She crawled on top of him and pulled the blankets up over her back to cover them both in a snug twilight warm from their bodies. He felt himself growing erect, straining for her. She received him readily. They lay thus, in that soft gray light, that was timeless and underwater, and rocked unhurriedly in tiny motions.
After making love, they lay looking into one another’s eyes. David saw the time and groaned as he sat up. “We can’t be late for work.”
Tory sat beside him and cupped his face in her hands like something precious. Her eyes gazed fearlessly into his and he read passion and sincerity in them.
“You sweep me away, Tory.”
“You better not hurt me, David.”
“Where does that come from? Do I look like I'd hurt you?”
“I was with Maxie the other night, and watched her get stiffed by that stupid guy she pledged herself to.”
“You're not Maxie. I know Maxie. Maxie hasn't found Maxie yet.”
“You are so right, poor thing.” She rubbed fingertips on his chest. “You have long since swept me away, David. I'm just silly over you.” Her voice was low and fragile and defensive. Her thoughts prowled around him like a cornered animal. “After my divorce, and one or two more stupid guys came along, I wondered—what's worth that kinda hell? I’ll never fall in love again. And then I stumble over a guy like you, so here I go again.”
“I keep telling you.”
“Keep telling me what.” She kissed him, hovered over him, frowned, listened. He saw the ovals of her cheeks, the seriousness of her lips, the lightning in her eyes, the resolve in her chin, and loved her already. “I’m falling for you, Tory, pretty heavy. It’s a scary ride for me too, but I’ll go it if you want.”
“I don’t want anything from you except you be good to me. The little things, you know? Open the door for me and you hold the chair for me when I sit down and you don’t ever, ever yell at me or raise a hand to me, do you hear?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want from me?”
He thought for a moment. Yes, it bothered him he might never have children directly his own, but she probably made the trade worthwhile.
She shook his head gently between her palms. Her face neared, as if she wanted to kiss him, or peer into his skull. “What do you want?”
He held her, one hand on each side of her, his fingers feeling her ribs, as though she were a vase or an amphora or an urn containing all that would ever be his in life, free, just there for the taking, as long as he had the courage and the will, as she stared unflinchingly into his eyes. He felt the steady beat of her heart, the pulsing of her blood—or was it his? He felt the generosity in her open palms as she held his cheeks in her palms. She whispered one last time: “What do you want?”
He wanted to say, yes I’ll do those things and not do the other things you said; don’t go off with another man; maybe cook dinner once in a while or pat the pillows up or tell me to take my feet off the sofa or praise me if I remember to do the dishes. I want a corner to sit in and read and I don’t want you to rearrange my books, or throw out my newspaper, or close the magazine I leave open. What he said was: “I—want you to always be honest with me.”
“I promise.” She added sadly: “You’ll want children of your own, and then you’ll leave me.”
He resolved to watch that little doubt carefully; if it grew, he would have to bail out, in fairness to her and to himself. Could she be wrong? Was it doable? His heart raced at the thought. If he wanted her badly enough, it was doable. “We need to give each other some time and see if we are for real, or if we're kidding ourselves. Only time will tell that.”
“I know you're right.” Her eyes drooped briefly: “I'm just afraid. I can see the little doubt inside you. It’s okay. If it happens, it happens.” She brightened, and kissed him a peck on the lips. “You said what I wanted to hear. C’mon, I’ll race you to the shower.” A minute later, in the warmth and soapy steamy enclosure that was barely big enough for two people, their moment of gloom disappeared and she said: “I like romantic letters and cards. They don’t have to ramble on and on, but I like them.”
“How about the occasional flowers?” He stepped behind her. “You're so soapy.”
“Oh, please wash me, all the way.” She placed her palms on the shower wall and offered herself. He took her gently, from behind, and gyrated with her so they came to an echoing climax—a wild song in the shower, atonal, chorus of two voices, raised in ecstasy. They stood for a few minutes, just catching their breath. He whispered raggedly over her shoulder, into her ear: “If that doesn't convince us, nothing else will.”
As she shut the water off, she said: “David, this is like wartime. You’ve seen those old movies. When you’ve got something, you better reach out, grab it, and hang on. Who knows where this will end.”
“Those are the old movies,” he agreed. “Do you like to go for long rides in the countryside?”
“I sure do. All the way out to Tabitha Summers’s place, I kept looking at you while you were driving. You looked so strong and handsome.”
“Gawrsh, Lottie.”
She whacked him with the washcloth. “This is serious, David. We're in big trouble here, letting our emotions out of their cages.”
“My emotions are prowling like escaped tigers.” He examined her bottom. “Hey, you get pink all over when you’re wet, don't you?”
“Just when it’s very warm. Mmh…” She put her hands back on the wall and closed her eyes. “Take your time. Look all you want.”
Breakfast was a blur of Maxie moving here and there as she made breakfast—hot oatmeal; milk, sugar, coffee, bacon. David and Tory sat contentedly at barstools around the service counter.
David almost laughed quietly at the sight of Maxie, wearing her gun as she ate breakfast. He was used to wearing a sidearm while on duty since this CON2 had begun. He thought nothing of seeing Tory armed, since she was an MP officer. But here was Maxie, 100 pounds soaking wet, casually holding a spoon of oatmeal in one hand and a piece of buttered toast in the other. Meanwhile, over her white T-shirt hiding just that hint of girlish breasts, she wore a shoulder holster containing what looked like, on her, a huge 9 millimeter cannon. He was going to ask if it didn’t drag her down on one side, but some instinct told him he’d better not poke fun at her. Never poke fun at a person packing a piece, even if it’s Maxie. All three of them ate quietly, enjoying each other's company.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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