"Sean."
"Yes."
"Stop being careful."
"I am not being careful."
"You are."
I kiss her. Turn her. Her back goes to the tile. She makes a small sound at the cold. The water hits both of us at an angle now and the steam is thickening around our heads.
"Hands on the tile."
She looks at me for one second. She turns. Puts both hands flat on the wall.
I put one hand on her hip. The other goes between her shoulder blades, flat, holding her there. Not pressing. Holding. The way I held her hand on my chest in the kitchen. Same hand. Same hold.
"Tell me what you want."
"You. Inside me. Now.Cazzo, Sean,now."
I push inside her on the first stroke.
She drops her head. Makes a sound that is not quiet and is not performed and has nothing of the consigliera in it. Raw. Low. Mine.
I do not ask her whose she is.
She has told me.
"Sean."
"Yeah."
"Harder."
"Yeah."
"Non smettere," she whispers. Don’t stop.
"I'm not."
She comes with a sound that hits the tile and the glass and comes back at us as something larger. I follow her a second after, with my forehead against the back of her neck, hard enough that the wound tears, hard enough that I am bleeding down my side again.
I do not care.
She dressesthe wound at the bathroom counter. Antiseptic. Fresh gauze. Her hands on my side the way they have been on my side since Long Island City. She tapes the last edge, and her hands rest on the dressing for one second.
I put my hand over hers. She does not pull away.
We endup in the bedroom.
She gets into bed without explanation. I follow her. She turns on her side. I come in behind her. She pulls my arm over her and puts my hand flat on her chest over her heart.
I feel it beating.
She falls asleep.
I do not.
