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20EliseIf I live to be one hundred, I will never forget those words, in his quiet voice. “Now I get to see you in my dreams and in my nightmares.” I’ll be seeing the way his cheek tucked up in the world’s saddest smile. For me. Nor will I forget his blue eyes when he said that crazy stuff about the train. How he looked…proud that he’d shattered my heart.
All the…killings. That spiked my pulse at first, but God, he really is the same. No one who takes spiders outside “to feed frogs” is murdering unnecessary people.
I laugh as a tear drips down my cheek. Unnecessary people. I am losing my mind.
I watch him walk back over to his weekend bag, pull out another pair of boxer-briefs.
“You know what I think about spiders? And really all indoor bugs?” I ask, looking at him in the mirror as he runs a hand back through his hair again. “I feel like—okay, I know this is crazy. Sort of crazy. But I can’t help wondering if like…everything is this system, right? I mean, we know it is. Just look at the bacteria in a human body. We are carrying these tiny, microscopic things around within us—in our stomachs, on our skin. And then the system widens to the population level, and species level, and the ecosystem level. Then you get to the planet level, the galaxy level. Like, we’re the planet’s skin bacteria, and we don’t even know it. Anyway. If it’s all connected—if maybe we’re all just one big system—then it bothers me to kill the spiders. I was killing them through college and law school. But then—” I shake my head. “Now I take them outside. When I get them. Which in my place now, I never do, because they spray stuff.”
My eyes grab his as he turns back to me, and his lips twitch in this smirky little smile. It used to be the smile that told me he thought I was cute or funny. Charming. It’s the smile that says I like you. Just because.
“So you’re not killing any spiders,” he says, gripping the dresser’s ledge and leaning back against it.
“No,” I whisper.
He steps closer. There’s a notch between his brows as he crouches by the bed’s low mattress, reaching toward my face without touching it.
“I think you got a dimple, rosa.”
I can feel my cheeks warm as I cover the left one with my hand. “No I didn’t.” I did.
“Yeah, I think you did. I’m pretty sure. Let me see.”
“Dimples were your thing.”
He grins, showing it off. “Man indention.”
There’s a moment here; I’ve noticed there almost always is. Luca grins with his dimple. I’m smiling at him, feeling the smile down to my soul. And I have this moment where it’s all a clear path. As I look into his blue eyes, drinking in his Luca-ness—right here beside me, so close I feel dizzy—I feel something shift deep in my soul, where coal is shoved into the heart fire to keep the other engines running. I’m surprised and also not surprised that it feels like no decision at all.
He’s here, and he’s the same. He didn’t come back different from the war. He’s still the boy I loved. I think distantly that I have spiders to thank for this. Then I reach out, brushing his cheek with my shaking fingers.
He leans closer—our foreheads are almost touching—and his eyes glisten. His hand cradles my chin, strong fingers splayed along my jaw. “You’re still an angel,” he says. “Still too nice. Too…selfless.”
“No I’m not.”
“I’m being selfish,” he says softly. “Playing games.”
“So what’s the game?”
His eyes are tired.
I take his hand and press it to my chest. I close my eyes, and his lips brush mine. Then we deepen the kiss, and I’m lost in it, to it. I’m nothing but sensation—the dizzy sensation of melting against a man’s hard body. He’s crawling on the bed beside me, then we’re lying down and he’s atop me. He’s so heavy. He’s so warm. He’s scooping me up so he can flip us.
He’s on his back, and I’m straddling his hips. I’m laughing into his mouth because this is what he used to do. He’s arching up to meet me, his tongue hot, insistent, even as his hand cups my head gently. Oh hell, now it’s not gently. He’s gripping my hair so it hurts.
I wrench my mouth from his, looking down between our bodies as I rub myself against him. I feel him hard against me, rocking his hips, groaning as if he’s never been touched—not since me. He’s perfect, and I’m rubbing up and down his body, tracing the rim of his preposterously long and thick cock. His whole body trembles, and he tilts his head back, starts to moan.
Little whispered nothings, and I worry that I won’t remember. “Amo questo. Amo le tue mani su di me.” He loves my hands. I tell him I love his body. Then I’m crouching down between his legs. I’m licking him. He’s going crazy, bucking under me before I even seal my mouth around him. Then I do, and he’s clutching my hair, his palm cupped around the back of my head.
