Sam's come out of hibernation with the first day of spring. Present and combed, beard trimmed short, collar pressed, a new feature on this odd bug, noted also are the matching shoes, picking up the browns in his shirt and his hair.
Are you objectifying me? Judging me based on appearances?
Maybe. I wink at him but it's with effort to be jovial, generous.
How are things? I feel as if I haven't seen you but I'm trying to step back and let the others have space to work with you.
That makes me sound like some kind of avant-garde art installation.
I hope you'll take it as a compliment, then.
My eyebrows go up but I don't say anything.
You look sad and exhausted, Bridge.
Oh, he's just going to walk in and thrust his torch against every soft, flammable surface today. I try to put it out with tears but then he yanks it back.
I'm fine, actually. My shaky hand gives it away as I try to wipe the lone tear that's headed for the floor suddenly.
I didn't mean to upset you. What can I do?
Got your crystal ball handy?
God has great plans for you, Beautiful.
You sound like someone I used to know. I laugh bitterly.
Things are going to get better now.
No, Sam. We're just going to wait. And then things will go back to the way they were.
I hope they don't. What about you?
I wish there was an easier way.
***
Ben's hand comes up against the back of my neck in the dark. The wind is howling through the window, blowing the curtains wildly against the glass. Blowing the flames against the edges of the night. He pulls me up against him, his head bending down against my shoulder, a kiss I can't return as I am pushed back down flat on the quilts, turned over by the hips and then crushed underneath his weight, a casualty of Ben's hunger that now looms large but more sporadically than before. My cry is stifled by his hand over my mouth, pulling my head back up against his chest. His head is against the top of mine. I wonder if I'll die this way. I tap his forearm and he lightens his grip on me by more than half and I can breathe again.
He picks a slow and steady rhythm, pulling me down on the upstroke and up on the down and it hurts so beautifully I hope it lasts all week. His hand slides down underneath me and soon I am in a frenzy against his hold, and then again. And then again, with fresh tears as the frustrations of the week go up in the smoke from the fire.
He turns me back over, resuming his customary gentle-roughness, his oops-didn't-mean-to-break-that barrage on through the night, his attempts to make everything better. I hold on so tight, arms around his shoulders, my face held against his heart now, legs around his hips as he scoops me up hard against him, taking me to outer space a few more times before he comes with me to see the stars before he finally gives me a long kiss and lets go. It's cold for a mere second, enough for me to catch my breath and then Lochlan pulls me in close. Ben disappears and Lochlan's practised hands take over and by the time the sun comes up I have everything I ever wanted, including sleep, having slept jammed underneath Lochlan's chin, my lips against his Adam's apple, his arm thrown over my back, my arms tucked in between us, the customary, longtime position, consummate safety.