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Mason
I hadn’t been sleeping well.
Ever since Rachel and I talked, cleared the air, explained, forgave, healed, I hadn’t been sleeping well. Falling asleep was elusive. Staying asleep even more so. I started at every creak of the bed, expecting to open my eyes in the dark to Rachel sneaking out. In my dreams she did. In my dreams she slammed the door and it jolted me up in bed, back pin straight, breath coming in ragged gasps.
In real life she would ease the door shut. Careful to twist the lock back slowly. Careful not to even leave with a tiny click. I slept like the man at the edge of a cliff; expecting always to fall.
But that night before Day 30, I really didn’t sleep well. Didn’t sleep at all.
The decision had been made: Rachel was to go back to the US to deal with some theatre business before returning back to Dublin. For me. For good. We’d decided.
And yet I felt no sense of security. No feeling of solid ground beneath me.
I tossed and turned the hours away like I was awaiting a judge’s gavel in the morning. Like a ruling one way or another was still hanging over my head. Like the executioner’s blade was still inches above my neck.
I feared I’d wake Rachel as I shifted this way and that, throwing the blanket down off my sweating body, tugging it up against my chills, kicking my feet long, drawing them up to my stomach like a frightened child. When I heard Rachel’s breath catch, I forced myself to stay still. But it only took seconds for me to feel like I was in a coffin. And the only thing to keep me from screaming was my teeth buried into my lower lip. It was torture, those long minutes waiting for Rachel to sink back into that deep, dreamless sleep where I could not follow.
When morning light of Day 30 came weakly through the cracks in the blinds, I was exhausted. My muscles felt weak like I’d not used them in years. Or like I’d not rested them in decades. I’d sunk into the mattress like it was wet cement. Like Rachel would go and I would be stuck there.
And yet her touch was the touch I remembered as she rolled over with a sleepy smile. The tickle of her wild curls against my bare chest was everything I’d wanted. She was there and drawing herself in closer and her eyes were sparkling as they met mine and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
“It’s Day 30,” I said, splaying my hand against the warmth of her skin at her lower back, there against her tattoo of a dove’s wings.
Rachel craned her neck to give me a tender kiss.
She whispered, “And tomorrow will be Day 31 and the day after that Day 32.”
I curled my fingers into her skin. Tried to grab hold of more of her. Tried to fill my palm with her like she was precious water in an endless desert. But the dove’s wings were taut. I wasn’t sure they wanted to be held so tightly.
“Do you want that?” Rachel asked, her eyes questioning on mine.
“Yes,” I told her, and it was the truth. It was more than the truth. It was everything.
Rachel smiled. It was that smile. The smile before she left for her performance. The last smile I’d see before I had to go. The smile I didn’t know was the last smile. It promised everything. It offered everything. It sparkled like a diamond. Or did it sparkle like a mirage? Were my cupped hands dry, there in that blinding desert?
“Me too,” Rachel said, nipping at the line of my jaw.
Her rolling on top of me, naked. Her hands all over my body. Her heart beating through her breasts against my ribs. It was the only thing I could have asked for.
But I worried this was the dream. That I hadn’t slept poorly at all. That I’d fallen fast asleep and was being tortured not with sleeplessness, but with the most perfect dream.
The most perfect dream that was always bound to end. As all dreams do.
It was a strange cruelty when I couldn’t quite believe her when she whispered against the pulse in my throat, “I want Day 34.”
Or when she kissed a hot trail down the centre of my chest, saying between each wet press of her lips to my scalding skin, “I want Day 35… I want Day 36… I want Day 37.”
Rachel shimmied down the length of me and my grip on her dove wings fell away.
“I want Day 121,” she groaned against my lower stomach. My fingers moved of their own accord into her tangled curls as she licked the length of my hard shaft and said, “I want Day 308”. My head arched back and my hips yearned to buck up as Rachel paused with her mouth around my head, “I want Day 1,073,” before taking me fully into her hot little mouth.
When I came and she swallowed everything down and looked up at me from between my thighs with heavily hooded eyes and said, “I want Day 4,920,” I couldn’t quite believe her.
I drew her up, slick body against mine, and claimed her mouth, tasting me on her lips. There was something wrong about her saying as my tongue swirled around hers, “I want Day 8,011”.
I urged Rachel’s pussy up to my mouth, thighs parted on either side of my face. All I wanted to do was lick her wet folds and hear her moan for the rest of my life. Rachel promised me exactly that as she gripped the bars of the bedframe and rolled her hips against my tongue.
“I want Day 9,282,” she moaned, toes curling against my ribs. “Day 10,000,” she gasped as her fingers clutched at my hair. “I want your Day 100,000,” she screamed as she bore down on my mouth and my tongue pushed inside her. “I want…” she began before the words were stolen from her by a wave of pleasure that made her collapse against the bedframe, sink onto my face, melt onto me like she was ice on a hot summer’s day as I lapped at the core of her. “I want all your days,” she whispered when she came to lie beside me with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
