Chapter 39

That night I cooked with him. Or I wanted to until we realized that neither of us really knew how to cook. I boiled pasta with him and set the plates. We sat at the table and then on the couch and turned on the TV. We didn't look at him, though. We sat next to each other and he told me about David's first wife, his mother, Clara. About her blonde curls and the song she sang to him at night to fall asleep. About her pie she made every Saturday. About church. Clara took them to church periodically. Instead I told him about Grandma Velcro and the smell of cigarettes and oil on her hands, about cars and her auto repair shop. About grandpa and his leg mutilated by a homemade bomb, grandpa was a soldier. About the yard and a swing made from a car tire. That night Travis and I didn't feel the need to undress each other. We fell asleep, dressed, side by side. That night I felt like he was my best friend and I made his chest my nest. In the morning I woke up with him on my chest, my arms around me. All I can think about is how I wish I knew how to make that pie. That I should find the recipe somewhere, someone must know it. All I can think about is how much he misses his mother no matter how hard he tries to hide it. I miss mine too. The difference is that Lucille chose to leave me. Clara had no choice. Clara was killed at the Leigh family games. And I don't know what to think, how to feel about it. On the one hand, I understand hunting better now that I've seen it. Accidents happen. On the other hand, this woman had children. Don't they care? Don't they care that other people can have children at home? Delilah never got to know her mother. Her brother barely remembers her. I feel a warm feeling and run my hand through Clara's curly, blond hair. Delilah deserved her beauty... if that's the price she paid then... She deserved to be the living memory of her mother.

I feel his fingers on my stomach and he lifts my shirt to kiss my skin. He stirs and stands up a little, to look at me. He brings his head back to my chest.

"Do we still have time?" He asks me.

"Yes. It's early. It's not even 9 and the party starts at 3."

"And how long does it take you to get ready? I guess you want to go to the salon and..."

"No," I assure him. "I can handle it on my own. Two hours. Another hour until we get there. We have three more hours until it's too late to get up."

"Okay. Three hours. We can laze here for three hours," he smiles.

I continued to stroke his hair as I slowly agreed. He moved and I playfully bit my finger. He stood up.

"What happened to the sloth?"

"Nothing. But I want coffee and I think you do too. Shall we go to the Kitchen or do you want to stay?"

I get up too. I brush my teeth while he prepares the news. He brushes his teeth while I finish my coffee and start preparing something to eat for him. Unlike me, he likes to eat in the morning. When he passes me, he puts his hand around my waist. He stops and kisses me on the cheek. I know that usually we just argue, but I think I like this kind of atmosphere. It's sweet and peaceful. It feels good, it feels natural and I know that if we started to argue, we would stay the same. I'm not afraid to argue with him, to tell him what I don't like or, on the contrary, to hold him in my arms and ask him to hold me back.

"Yesterday, start. Yesterday you said I was your husband..."

"You are."

"…I liked the way it sounded."

I smile crookedly.

"Should I say that more often?"

"As often as you want," he assured me. "But I like the idea of… Letting the world know, you know? That we are… Ah… How should I put it? It wasn't a love marriage, and maybe I'm just saying that because I felt so good last night, but I like it. And I know in prison we talked about getting a divorce after you get out. But I'd rather not do that. Not yet."

"You want us to be a couple," I understand.

"Yes. Yes, that. If you want too. No pressure. We can continue like this."

"Would we be… monogamous?"

"Yes, I guess so. I don't like the idea of being with more than one person at once, you know. Not even when you were in prison..."

"I understand. And… we would go out on dates from time to time… we…"

"We'd be a couple, baby. We'd do all the things a couple does. I'll let you think," he decides. "*And if the devil were ever to see you, he'd kiss your eyes and repent… "* he whispers softly.

"What?"

"Oh… sorry. It's from an Arabic poem. By Farouq Jwaydeh, I think."

No, not that. The poetry itself. And the fact that he knows the lyrics. The fact that he says them when he has them in mind. I can't control the stupid grin on my face.

"*Sometimes I'm terrified of my heart; of it's constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts. Poe."*

I don't want him to think I don't appreciate poetry, quite the opposite. I want him to know that I do. That I appreciate his quotes and that I can respond in kind. That I know how much feeling can be hidden in a few words. He smiles crookedly at me.

"*Set your heart ablaze*", he answers me immediately. "Demonslayer. Rengoku Kyojuro."

He looked at me as if challenging me to continue.

"*Emptiness is safe, keep it that way. Andy Black in Ribcage."*

"Ah!" He smiles crookedly. "I feel…" he hesitates. "*I feel like the only way out of our toxicity is a coffin. Mine or yours. Kassie Wade."*

What? I look at him and he seems very sure of what he's saying. I recognize the line. I don't expect him to know it, it's from one of my old books. I remember it because it affected me and because I felt it when I wrote it.

"I…"

"Are you stuck?" he asks me quickly. "I was just warming up."

"No, no. I… *All I loved, I loved alone."*

"We return to Poe. Good. *You have been the last dream of my soul*. Dickens."

"*It's like an angel kissing a devil. It is toxic and it hurts, beautifull and it works. Lilith Czar."*

*"In the very depths of hell do not demons love one another?"*

*"The earth is littered with the ruins of Empires that believed they were eternal.* Camilla Paglia."

"Yes," he sighs. "So you don't believe in that, do you? In love and..."

"I believe in love," I assure him. "And in its ability to destroy. In its toxicity and the Machiavellianism it demonstrates. I saw what love did to my parents."

"Machiavellianism," he repeats. "You like complicated words."

"Not necessarily. It's just that..."

"I want you to love me," he announces. "I want you to love me so much that it hurts. To love me with every part of you, to burn and die just by looking at me. I want, I lift my chin so I can look him in the eye, like every time you read something, when you listen to a vaguely romantic song, to think of me. I want you to write about me," he leans down and snatches a short, tight kiss. "I want you to love me," he concludes decisively.

The solemnity of the moment doesn't let me mock him. To be defiant. I want to ask him if he'll give me 365 days to fall in love or if he'll be some kind of Edward Cullen to watch me sleep. If he'll be like Christian Grey and come to me with a strange contract while I'm gnawing on pencils. I'm silent though. I'm silent because I recognize that hunger for emotion in his eyes. I recognize it because I feel it, because it's my reflection. I want to be loved, without half measures. I want to be chosen. I want to feel my skin burning with a single touch and find a safe place in someone's arms. To feel safe and perfect. Not too small, too weak or ugly. Not a murderer, not a tool in a sick game. I want someone who will love me for the good and the bad. I think he understands my desire, actually, because I extend my hand to him and he knows exactly what my gesture means. He embraces her and intertwines his fingers with mine. And that's enough, just sitting here in the kitchen. I rest my head on his shoulder and immediately feel his lips on my hair. I want him to love me. I want him to love me. Please, let him love me!