Page 198 of These Tears

Shower. Camera. His hand over his mouth.

Lid down, and it’s all boxed inside.

The water from the tap pours too fast – some splashes over my hand, the chill making me hiss.

There are no gasps beneath the rush of the spray now.

By the time I take the first bitter sip, I have almost convinced myself I can keep everything in separate compartments if I label them properly.

That’s what my therapist once said – keep things separate so they don’t bleed into one another.

Fine.

Desire. Fear. Pity. Evidence. And, since I hate myself this morning – stupidity.

Halfway through the second sip, the hallway floor creaks, and I look up to find him standing at the entrance to the sitting room.

Our eyes lock and he stops so abruptly the floorboards complain. His gaze cuts away, snapping to the clock above the doorway, scowl deepening as if the hour is somehow my fault, too.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ His voice comes out rough, scraped from too little sleep and too much of… whatever happened last night.

I lower the mug an inch. ‘You seemed tired.’

His jaw muscle ripples. ‘The chickens don’t care how tired I am,’ he grinds out.

Trying to soften it, I say, ‘I made some coffee. I can fix you a cup before we—’

He crosses the kitchen so quickly my spine locks against the counter. ‘What did I say about this?’

I stare at him, dumbfounded at first, my brain filtering through all the commands he’s ever flung my way, but coming up with nothing.

Snatching the mug from me, he angles it to his mouth and drinks. Barely a swallow. His eyes stay on mine as he lowers it again.

Ah. A reminder, then. One mug. One plate. One punishment.

I exhale. Long and slow.

So we’re back to that.

‘Move,’ he rumbles, jerking his chin towards the door.

We pull on our outer layers without speaking, then step outside as if nothing at all happened behind that door. As if he hadn’t taken something from me. As if I hadn’t taken something from him.

We pull off the snowmobile cover and brush the remaining snow from the machine. The only sound is the stiff scratching of our gloves against the frost-hardened metal and plastic.

He doesn’t speak until we’re ready to leave, which takes time because the machine needs to warm up enough to drive.

Finally, the snowmobile takes us back up the hill where he’d first taken off the blindfold. The engine dies with a low rumble as he stops between two birches.

‘Come to the front,’ he commands and pushes his goggles up without turning to look at me.

I sigh behind him. ‘Why can’t I just ride like this?’

He exhales through his nose like a tired animal. ‘Why do you always need to be told things twice?’

With a grunt, I dismount and yank the goggles off. He glares at me as I round his very large knee, then climb back on in front of him, my legs settling on either side of his hips.

When he repositions beneath me, our chests collide and heat seeps straight through the layers.