I cannot answer. The word from Max in the dark of the truck bed in her voice has gone into me at a place that the moving of my hand cannot reach. I make a sound. I rock up. I move my hand faster.
"Slow."
"Max."
"Slow. I'm not done watching."
I slow.
I hold the press at the edge. I drag the pad of my thumb in slow circles. I move the two fingers in me at the count of her breath. I can hear her breath now. The wind is low. The pines are hushing. The truck cab is at her back. Her breath is at the rate I want my hand to be.
I match her.
She breathes in. I press in.
She breathes out. I curl out.
She makes a small sound against the cab.
"Evangeline."
"Yes."
"Use the other hand."
"Where."
"Where I bit you last night."
I lift my left hand to my breast through the open coat, through the rucked-up henley, and I find the place under the cloth where the small bruise is, and I press my palm flat against it. The press wakes the bruise. The bruise wakes the rest of me. I make a sound that comes up out of my chest.
"Yes," she says.
She has shifted at the back of the truck. Her hand is moving faster under the trousers. Her head is back against the cab. Her eyes are still on me.
"Don't come yet."
"Max."
"Not yet."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I can't."
"Two more counts."
I hold.
I hold at the edge. I have never in my life held at the edge like this and the holding for Max in the bed of her truck under a navy sky is a holding I do with my mouth open and my knees wide.
"Max."
"Two… One…Now, Evangeline. Come with me.” Her voice is a growl.
I come.
