I arch back and stretch, and he meets me again.
We kiss. Deep and full, full as ever. He cups my face between his hands, somehow gentle in this moment. I feel safe. Never safer. Like I never knew I needed protection before and will never be this peaceful, feel this safe again. Not unless we’re together.
Another move and a moan escapes him. “Emma…” His voice. My name. Midnight velvet. Deep strum. Acoustic guitar.
I am lost.
I pull back, and he scoops me up. Picks me up as if I weigh nothing. Keeps us together. Never part. Never apart.
Flips me over. Reseats and resumes. The way my flesh grips, the way his length surges, it sears, it brands, it claims. I sigh long and low, a lament for whenever he is not deep within.
His hips go forward and pound against mine again, again. His chin drops down and near silent words pass across his lips.
He murmurs, looking down at my face. “Ung, is this how…you want it?”
He can give me more, if he wants. Not sure there’s any room down there for more, if ya know what I mean (and I think ya do).
I want to give him more, too, if that’s what he wants; I want him, however he will give himself to me.
I want to quit having these Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey moments when I’m in the middle of having as nice a time as is humanly possible.
We slide slowly, savoring, and I swirl my tongue around his nipple. Seems only fair. Mine spend enough time in his mouth. Draw it deep into my mouth, across my tongue. He moves against me, rocking, pushing me, pushing deeper.
I can feel my legs begin to shake as I border on desperation. I know we need more. My fingers play across the flesh of his thighs. Muscles tense and work beneath my palm.
Pull apart. Bend my knees behind him. Not enough. More. Want.
Sweat runs between us. His, mine, ours.
Ankles over shoulders. Find a way to make him slip further in. His hands freeze. Shudders wrack. Then his fingers dig into my thighs, find a way to make him slip further in.
“Oh fu—Emmmma.” His eyes roll back in his head to where he stores how to do long division.
He bucks against me, and I feel myself begin to clench. He holds me tighter still, grinds against me. My new favorite move.
“Oh, please…please…” Even to me, my voice is soft and breathless.
He loses rhythm, but keeps pounding. Dedicated.
Wraps around my calves, widens my legs, and I really hadn’t realized there was any of me left for him to discover, but I feel the difference, the pulse and heat where I’ve never felt anything before.
Limbs begin to shake. His, mine, ours.
Writhing. Over and under. Come apart. Pieces. Shards.
I cry out. My voice borders on a choke. He follows. Stills.
Blood pounding.
His.
Mine.
Ours.
Day of Employment:
383
5:43 a.m.
* Location: Next to him.
I AWAKE TO THE SOUND of my own huge intake of air and sit up bolt upright.
He stirs but stays asleep.
I haven’t stayed up late just talking in bed since Clara and I were in middle school.
I had asked him about Diana.
“I don’t have anything with her, and I never have.” He rolled onto his side to face me. “She’s been more than clear with her wishes, but so have I. She is a necessary—well, I hate to put it this way—necessary evil for this process. She can mess up everything. I have told her I’m not interested. But she remains determined…maybe even more so since I expressly turned her down. Until we sign, I’m just trying to keep the peace, keep her at arm’s length.”
“Bet you wish you had longer arms,” I said.
“And more of them. She’s grabby.” He smiled and reached out, almost touching me, then pulled his hand back and stuffed it under his pillow. “I don’t think I like this ‘no touching’ rule.”
“Well, it was your idea,” I reminded him. My hand tingled; it really was hard to be so close and not touch him.
He huffed and pulled the bedding higher around us. “It seemed to be the only concession that would get you to stay in bed with me.”
“You got me into your bed by offering to not touch me. Pretty sure that’s the opposite of how it’s usually done.”
Then he’d told me about himself. The stuff I couldn’t learn by watching him in a fishbowl.
His father raised him on his own after his mother had died. His father had asked him to be his best man when he had finally remarried last year.
“I’d rather not talk about my mother,” he said, folding his arm across his face. “I barely remember her. Only little pieces.”
I left it alone.
I could remember my mother, but there still wasn’t a lot to talk about. “My parents are okay. Just shuffled me back and forth after the divorce. Now they both have new families.” It didn’t really bother me to feel like an outsider around either of them. “But then, I don’t have anything to compare it to. This is it. Just me.”
It had been quiet for a while; I’d almost fallen asleep, when he spoke again. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”
Disoriented, I wondered if I had missed something. “Ask what?”
“Why I’m such an asshole.”
I blinked up at the ceiling. “Um, no. No, I’m not.”
He sat up on one arm, his face surprised. “Really?” He paused for a moment. “I thought that might be the first thing you would ask. I’ve been waiting.”
“You have no patience with distractions,” I offered. “I get it. Besides, you’ve been slipping.”
“How so?”
“You’ve been nice to me lately.”
He burrowed down into the bedding. “Some distractions are better than others.”
Now, hours later, I slide out from under his arm.
In the doorway, I look back at him. Peaceful.
I think about how frustrated I have been with him, but I can’t manage to feel as angry now, even with effort.
My conversation with Mitchell plays back while I get into the shower.
But why would I feel that way about Canon?
“Stupid,” I say into the spray. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I spit the words through the water. My head rests against the cool tiles.
It has to be the oxytocin or endorphins or whatever those evil, mind manipulation chemicals are that surge during sexual activities.
In this case, really, really surge.
Reason it out. No big deal.
He’s an ass. You do realize I have seen that movie…
He’s judgmental. What do you think of the owner, Samuel Dowry?
He’s condescending. I’m not insulting you. It is simple biology…
He’s conceited…she is the best I ever had…
He’s selfish. Give them your measurements…
He’s incompatible. Ugh. Bee vomit…
He’s secretive. If I wanted her, I would be with her…
He’s impossible to please. Wear whatever outfit goes with those black lace shoes and sit to my left…
He’s aloof and distant and cold, and who am I kidding with this line of bullshit, he is the singularly most passionate and responsive man I have ever known…
The water pounds down on me like the truth.
“I have been entirely wrong about him.”
Shit.
6:45 a.m.
I’M STANDING OVER HIM. He’s where I left him. On his side, tucked in.
Cutest little snore ever.
Stop it. I’m making myself sick.
I shake his shoulder, and he moves a little then settles back.
“Si…Mist…Can…” No, none of that seems right. I don’t know what to call him in these evolving circumstances.
His hair is a mess. I run my hand along his face, into his hair to try to tame it. He turns into my palm. A small hum floats up.
“Please wake up,” I w
hisper.
He blinks up at me. “Hi.”
“Um, hi.” I straighten up.
He sits up and takes in my clothes and the general condition of the covers that has him wrapped up like the savory filling of a bedding burrito.
“I’ve overslept.”
“No, no. Not by much. I…I thought you were going to, so…I woke you.”
He nods and starts to unwrap. I already know what’s in that package—it’s a different kind of package, go figure—and that is my cue to exit. Stage left. Turn and leave. In haste.
I hear him sigh loudly as I leave the room. The sunrise peeks through the curtains, and either the rooster crows or I can actually hear my own chicken shit soul.
I’m envious of how quickly he’s ready.
I gather up our things and let the breakfast server in when he arrives.
“Over here.” I motion for the cart to go near the sofa.
“Anything more, ma’am?”
“I don’t believe so,” I say.
Canon, suited, walks into the room.
The server turns to him. “You want anything more, sir?”
“It appears not,” he says, slipping on his watch. “It seems that having more is a harder decision for some.”
We eat and leave and drive and arrive, and I don’t hear his voice again until Mr. Peters greets him at 9:18.
“Fine. And you?”
2:20 p.m.
* Location: Break room.
* Emotional State: DEFCON 2. And I’m mad at myself about it.
* Fumes: Running on them.
HOT COFFEE OVERFLOWS THE CUP and pours across my fingers. After a delayed reaction, I hold them under cool water.
“Hey, Emma,” Mitchell says, leaning on the counter next to the sink. “Just got my orders. Looks like I’m headed back to the old stomping ground to work with you guys.”
“That’s great. Really, really great.” It’s nearly impossible not to smile around him.
“So…any progress?”
Glancing up at him, I can’t decide if he’s inquiring about the foreign accounts or ribbing me about Canon. I play it safe.
“Nothing definite.”
He turns the water off and hands me an ice cube. “Maybe you need a different approach.”
“I need more time.”
“How much longer is your trip?”
“Just a couple more days.” I hear myself sigh.
“Is it definitely a now-or-never kind of thing? Or will there be a chance when you go back?”
“It would be too late by then.”
“How are you going to handle it? Do you have a plan?”
Ha.
I shrug.
He cocks his head. “That doesn’t seem like the Emma I remember.”
Yeah, you’re telling me. I shrug. Again.
“It’s important…right?”
Yes. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” He leans with his back on the counter. “That is it? Just a ‘yeah’? Maybe…oh, never mind.”
I roll my eyes. I wish he would just get to the point already. Hypocritical, I know.
“Well, Mitchell, this has been…real. But I need to get back to him.”
He smiles. “Get back to whom?”
“What? Work. I have to get back to work.”
“You said ‘him.’”
“Well,” I say, pointedly avoiding eye contact and gathering up drinks, “I work for a ‘him.’”
“Emma,” he says, looking blankly at the empty microwave, “regret is a kind of cold forever.”
4:18 p.m.
“MS. BAKER?” The unfamiliar voice draws my attention away from my screen. A woman in a delivery service uniform stands in the office doorway.
“Yes?”
“Delivery for you. Signature required.” She hands a clipboard to me and exits only to return moments later with a wide, flat box and a far smaller one on top. She’s gone without notice.
It occurs to me—and I don’t like the feeling at all—that I have not been asked to pick this up myself. It seems he would rather place orders and make arrangements himself than interact with me. I know I have brought this on myself.
It’s a white box. No markings. No address. I look around the room, but can no longer find the smaller one anywhere. Opening the big box, I wonder if there’s been some sort of mistake. Perhaps a different, heretofore unknown, Ms. Baker works here. Perhaps it’s a present for Canon, from his family or something, and I’m expected to keep a secret from him until the official holiday. That should be handy and all, you know, since it’s roughly the size of a Jetta.
Inside, beneath a sapling’s worth of sugar-scented tissue paper, is a dusky rose evening gown. Halter neck, empire waist, no trim. Understated in every way, save the color. The color may not even be season-appropriate.
Not that I’m complaining; it is lovely and reminds me very much of my favorite lipstick shade, My Wish List.
I pull the dress out and a smaller, inner box tumbles out onto the floor. Inside is a pair of delicate chandelier earrings. Without thought, I slip one on and begin with the other only to stop and burrow frantically through the tissues in search of a card.
Tissues crinkling and earring tinkling near my ear—so different than the nothing I’ve heard all day. Or at least nothing I have wanted to hear, the one thing I have wanted to hear is conspicuously absent, I realize. I miss him.
I ache.
A small card, held between two long fingers, appears inches from my nose. I look up and meet Canon’s guarded eyes. There was a time when I would’ve taken this look to mean detached and aloof; now, I know this is actually observation and caution. Wary.
Without breaking our gaze, I take the card. Quick glance and flip. It’s blank on both sides.
I look to him again. “What is this?” I ask, smoothing the bodice against me.
His eyebrow quirks. Wordlessly, he sets something on the desk and leaves the room.
I stare at the spot where I last saw him until my eyes become unfocused. Only then do I look down. A pair of tickets sits on my desk. The Nutcracker. 8:00 p.m. Black tie.
6:30 p.m.
* Location: Hotel bathroom.
* Hair: Unruly. It is fuller and not at all flat. How is a landlocked state so humid?
INTERNAL DEBATE as to whether I wear lipstick that perfectly matches the dress or not rages on.
Which is better than the other things that beg for a turn in my obsessing. The delivery. The dress. The blank card. The earrings…they seem a bit more than I can attribute to needing me suitably attired.
The tickets. To the ballet. To The Nutcracker, of all things.
Of all the things that could simultaneously make me feel like it really was Christmas but also make me ache with longing, The Nutcracker would be the pinnacle.
My family was not big on tradition, or at least not any that were recognized as such at the time. Dressing up to see the ballet performed while my cousin played in the symphony was a memory I treasured. We didn’t do it every year. Just enough. Enough to make it our sole tradition.
I have never gone since my family quit going. Well, since I quit going with my family. Different directions.
They have their families. I have me. Just me.
I haven’t been in years.
Actually I’m not sure I’ve been since I got boobs.
Admittedly an odd segue.
But, right now, I’ve got boobs on the brain. I’m staring at the straps of my bra, and they are staring right back at me. Inches and inches of black straps. The dress is a halter. I don’t have a Y-back or a convertible bra with me.
One reason why men buying dresses for women is not always the slickest of ideas: they have no frame of reference for necessary undergarments.
With no other real options presenting themselves, I take off the bra à la Flashdance.
Matching lipstick wins out. No one is going to be looking at my lips. I can’t say as much for body parts that rhyme…
/> Final touches, and then I exit the bathroom. Canon is nowhere to be seen. Or heard. Still.
I slide on black pumps and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. Panty lines.
Splendid.
Tonight, I will be wearing the matching panties to the no bra look.
His bedroom door opens, and I shove my underwear into the back of the sofa.
He’s in a tux.
A tux is not that much different than a suit. That will be my mantra. I chant it internally as I now force my body to do things like blink, breathe, and remain vertical.
It seems tuxedos affect the cerebrum.
“Is there anything I need to be doing?” I squeak. Anything besides proving the theory of spontaneous ovulation?
He hasn’t looked toward me yet. He shakes his head, opens the closet, pulls out my coat, and holds it up for me. Never once looks at me.
I slide into it, and he holds the door, silently ushering me out. When’s he going to talk to me again?
The drive to the theater is accompanied only by the sound of the tires moving through the snowy slush. We may be meeting others there. I’m not sure what’s expected of me anymore. I’m not sure of him or myself.
The valet line is long but moves quickly. He hands the keys over and takes my arm from the attendant who opened my door. I’m ridiculously comforted by the contact.
Inside, I check my coat. When I turn around, for the first time today, he is looking directly at me. Staring.
I want to say something, to get him to talk to me again, but nothing comes to me. What can I say here? Thanks for the dress that you had to get me so I could come to this with you? Did I ruin this? Can I start over?
“You look beautiful,” I hear myself say.
Well, he does.
I think I see the whisper of a smile, but then it’s gone. There is an alcove nearby, and I consider pulling him there to ask/demand/beg that he speak with me. We become part of the crowd streaming toward seats, and I can’t make myself pull him there. I’ve stepped out of my role so many times already and I can’t imagine he would be pleased to have attention drawn in public.
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