Wait for me.This one doesn't steal memories, he simply alters them, ever so slightly.
Trust for me.
Fall for me.
Even when you don't know you're falling for me.
Late last night, long after the kids were asleep, I returned to the garage, a hot mug of tea for Ben balanced in my hands, because it dropped to five degrees after the sun went down and the moon rose, bright and full in the night sky.
He was still grinning, happy for having fixed my truck for me even as he had scowled and cursed his way through the job, not impressed that I just didn't plan to rely on him and everyone else to chauffeur me through the winter months.
We listened to the unbalanced hum of the engine. So it needs a few tweaks to sound smooth. He'll continue to work on it. He also fixed the tailgate, so now instead of being rusted shut it opens easily for me in case I need to put something in the box. As if I can lift anything into the back.
He suggested I climb up and sit in the box. I settled for accepting a hand up and I perched on the edge of the open gate while he stood in front of me, his arms around me, my chin against his collarbone.
He suggested that we christen the truck. For luck.
In five degrees? I whispered, surprised.
Why not?
This from the coldest man I know.
I opted to let him lead but he didn't go anywhere. The thought of him folded up in the three-person cab was comical at best, but Ben had other plans anyway. I've never had my clothes removed so purposefully or slowly in my entire life. In minutes I'm sitting there on the gate, naked and covered in shivers and goosebumps and smiling from ear to ear as Ben removed his coat and wrapped it around me and then slid me right out to the edge.
So not cold anymore.
He kissed my throat, arching me back over his arms and holding me off the cold metal by mere inches and then when we were pressed together, his coat pushed up to my shoulders, he could no longer maintain that hold. He gently pressed me into the frigid metal and I cried out loud, it was so cold and then suddenly the blend of fire above and ice below was a whole fresh kind of heaven. Just cruel enough to be beautiful, just dangerous enough to be safe.
With his hands on my face, to be sure that I was paying attention. To be sure that I knew that it was Ben, not a ghost, not a memory, not a dream. His fingers sliding over my lips, over my ears.
Over my lower lip again so many times, a thumb that hesitated just the right amount of time, and my heart broke and mended all in one smooth blow and I emerged a whole new girl.
We came back inside, me still bundled in that coat that is always warm no matter what, my spindly legs sticking out the bottom, hoping none of the neighbors were peeking out their windows, and when we made it to the lights of the kitchen he laughed, for my face was covered with smudges of grease from his hands. Upstairs we discovered giant prints followed over most of my body, concentrated on my arms and my back, full hand prints there for us to marvel over in the full-length mirror. A metaphor for something wonderful.
We spent a solid half-hour in the bath, scrubbing me with soap and shampoo and even dish liquid, and managed to get off all but the worst of the marks, I believe today I still have the grayish shadow of Ben's fingers on my right shoulder blade and my entire left hip is blanketed with his giant hand span and then once we were clean, the inviting warmth of our bed in the dark, quiet room forged a safer place for us to draw out the rest of our want for each other. When his fingertips once again traced a path worn smooth by the two great loves who have traveled it before him, a feeling bubbled up to the surface in me that I never thought I would feel again, and I realized that it isn't possible to own (or even steal) memories after all.
One can only borrow them before others will claim them back. Only Ben isn't giving them back this time. He's going to pick the ones he wants to use and then he'll box up the rest, hiding them away forever, because here they're taking up too much room.
And today, underneath my twelve-hour lip gloss by Revlon is a faint gray thumbprint that I couldn't bear to even try to scrub off.
Give me this and I will give you everything I have.
Take it, it's yours.