Jonah

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He's loved her for so long. Is she finally ready?
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My favourite moments of the day are during my forty-five minute commute between work and home. They're the only times of the day that I let my mind go where I don't dare all the other hours. There I stroke her hair and make her tremble with kisses. I have whole conversations there. Sometimes I dare to tell her. Depending on the weather, how my customers talked to me, or how lunch is sitting she may laugh, yell or just walk away, but usually she softens and allows me to draw near. Sometimes she approaches me, drenched in rain or glowing in Saturday sunlight, lips parted and eyes darting. These are my favourite because I always end up doing the whole manly shoving her up against a wall thing, pinning her hands.

It's a difficult balance cultivating these fantasies, surrounded by jostling commuters, and keeping them from going too far... it's awkward enough bumping up against the high schoolers and business women.

On either end of the commute is the rest of my life, the parts that don't allow for fantasies. The downtown side is in a department store selling women's cosmetics that cost more than a day's salary for me, sometimes more than a week's. But tips are good... those women with their tight pants and sculpted cleavage appreciate a carefully timed wink when it comes from someone so dewy and humble as me. The blushes I coax from their botoxed cheeks are so much prettier than the ones I apply with squirrel hair brushes.

The suburb side is the creaky little house with the powder blue siding and the cherry tree and porch swing. Too hot in summer, too cold in winter. Floorboards worn. Kitchen with those puke green appliances and turquoise walls. I hung orange curtains just to amplify the visual assault. The toilet will keep flushing unless you wiggle it twice while running the bathtub faucet. Each piece of comfy furniture is a dust mite ridden hug of wine stained velvet, corduroy or microfiber. Trinkets drip from every surface, even the ceiling. Things she's collected, found, cast off, and hoarded with intense, but brief, passion.

When I walk up the concrete, moss lined path she's sitting as usual on the porch swing, casually crooked and wearing a long floaty skirt, one bare foot on the peeling white railing beside a sweating glass of sun tea. She wiggles her fingers at me through the railings, a little smile lighting her porcelain face. I wiggle my fingers right back.

"So?" she asks without moving.

"Four hundred and thirty," I tell her. My most expensive sale of the day.

"And?"

"Fifty dollars... in my boxers." And I tuck my hand into my shorts and pull out the bill.

"Good flirting, cowboy," she tells me, only her eyes following as I clomp up the dry and cracking wooden stairs.

"So what are you feeding this cowboy?" I ask and push the rusted chain to make her swing back and forth. Tendrils of auburn hair under her head kerchief shiver around her face with the breeze.

"I was thinking pesto salmon and fresh minted peas."

"What about those strawberries?" I ask because I picked them yesterday for her and I know she's so proud of how well they grew this year.

This rouses her and she flops her bare feet to the hot, peeling-paint wood. She lifts one finger to me. "Ah but that's a secret." She drops a luscious wink and pads into the house, crooked screen door creaking.

"Oil that please, Ellis," she mumbles as she slaps dirty feet through the cool darkness of the hall to the sunlight of the kitchen and its stained laminate.

I test the door a few times before falling into the cool embrace of our home (their home). I slide off my loafers, tuck them underneath the table we found at the flea market a month after I moved in. The floor snaps and pops as my sock feet tread the distance to her.

The kitchen smells of fresh basil, garlic and powdered sugar. Sugar dust catches the sunlight and dances like miniscule fairies, landing in her hair.

"Spark it up, will you, cowboy?" she asks without turning around, fingers deep in pesto and fish.

The back screen door creaks just as much as the front door, bangs harder, but she doesn't bother to ask me to oil it. She'll forget about asking me about either of them for another week. Maybe I'll get around to it tonight.

The barbeque lights with a satisfying whump of air and whiff of rotten eggs. I always take the life of my eyebrows and floppy bangs into my hands when I light this old and rusted beast. A bee buzzes through the heat, becomes lazy, falls and sizzles.

Rowan manages to keep the grass out here a luscious green, the kind that squishes beneath your bare feet and commands you to drop and roll and giggle. The front yard simply crisps in spots, no matter what she tries. She's given up and calls it our polka dot lawn.

I go back inside and bring out the bottle of wine, slide it onto the counter in front of her. Her favourite: apricot.

She squeals and beams at me, throws her arms around my neck (being sure not to get her pesto fingers on my good flirting work shirt).

"Oh Ellis! Just what I wanted! Perfect perfect you're perfect!" She bounces as she hugs me and smells of lavender and strawberries. I lose her warmth as quickly as she flung it at me and she's outside placing the delicate fish on the grill. I'm sure the neighbours suddenly have a craving for garlic.

I open the wine and pour it into two mismatching glasses (mine thick pale aqua with rustic, Peruvian bubbles and crookedness, hers a paper thin crystal that sings the moment you touch the rim with a wet finger). I carry them both out and tuck hers in her waiting hand, flop in a hammock chair and watch the hummingbirds at the honeysuckle. She sips and sighs.

"Perfect, isn't it?" The salmon behind her sizzles. I don't answer but admire her in my peripheral vision. Thoughts swell and I have to crush them. Before I can my hand slips over her barely exposed navel to rest on one jutting hip. My fingers tingle with the imagined touch.

When the salmon is done, she fusses in the kitchen. I don't help because my duty is dishes. Sometimes she lets me barbeque a steak, even though she doesn't like them. I hear the creak/slam and then a plate appears in my hands, laden with thick coated fish and a puddle of peas. My fork was stolen from a hospital cafeteria. The food is delicious as usual. Afterwards I savour the garlic still on my tongue and watch as the sun slides behind the lilacs, dappling the grass. The moment stretches and she flops her dirty bare feet on the railing. I wish I could paint her toenails.

She stays there, drinking her second glass of wine as I wash the dishes in water as hot as the weather will permit. As I prop them, dripping, over that ridiculously red towel she loves to use, a memory invades unbidden.

Before, it was my turn to do dishes only when I visited. Beyond the noise of the water and steam I would hear their soft voices on the porch, their laughter. If I twisted my head to the left I could see them, sitting there in those hammock chairs, fingers casually entwined and caressing. I twist my head to the left now and see her sitting and rocking alone with her wine.

When I'm done, I shake my hands and dry them on the red towel, then carry the second bottle of wine outside. The sun is golden and peeking between the branches in that secret evening way. I pour her a third glass, myself a second and sit.

"I miss him, Ellis," she tells me and her voice sounds thick. "Can we lie on the grass and get drunk again?"

I nod even though she doesn't see. She carries the bottle out and spreads herself on the green carpet.

"I'll be back," I tell her and go change my clothes into something casual and white and crisp (grass stains be damned). When I get back out there and place myself carefully beside her, she's already on her fourth glass with cheeks flushed. I down my third just to catch up. She trembles as she pours me another, giggles. We both flop back and stare up at the darkening blue. But then my heart flutters as her head nestles into the crook of my shoulder, her hair tickling my chin and wafting lavender into my nostrils.

When I first met her she smelled of lavender, although her hair was longer then. She was made of sweetness and laughter, I thought, and my heart had belonged to her from that moment. It was the day Jonah had brought her home to meet our parents, tell us they were engaged. Her cheeks had flushed with the celebratory wine (an inoffensive but cheap chardonnay) and I had smelled how sweet the wine was on her breath when she had placed a soft kiss beside my lips before padding upstairs to bed that night. Lavender and wine and gentle lips had filled my dreams that night. And almost every night since.

They had married later that summer. She was a summer person, even bundled in a dozen layers during the winter she exuded the light of July. I was their best man. My brother had never looked happier, creased in smiles and damp with July sweat. Her dress had been simple and so white, with little yellow flowers at her waist and in her hair, grass stains growing around the hem of her skirt. Their first kiss as man and wife had shattered my poor fragile heart, and made it soar with hope for humanity. If two perfect people could find each other amongst it all, we must be doing something a little right.

I lived with the pain of loving her. Sometimes it stabbed so hard it felt like razors to breathe. Especially when he stroked the back of her neck with his finger, which he often did. I could almost feel the soft hairs there on my own fingertips. When she visited us alone, she would speak of him tenderly and often. We would gather around a puzzle of a Monet painting and she would talk of their visit to the Louvre on their honeymoon. And then the streets of Paris and their stink and romance.

It was icy with sleet the day we got the call. She was with us, warmed by hot cocoa laced with brandy. My father answered the phone and paled quickly. As he did we were tied to that single reaction in our own personal ways. Rowan's eyes had widened and become sparkly, I felt like my whole body had suddenly melted and was falling away from me in wet chunks, and our mother had clutched her knitting tight and stared into her husband. He said little over the phone, but somehow we knew in the heavy way he spoke just how terrible it would be as soon as he hung up.

We learned in small doses that it was a car accident. A semi. A bridge. Black ice. It had been quick (which we learned later was a lie). Father drove us to the hospital, knuckles white on the steering wheel, accidentally turning on cold air instead of heat as we rode, chilled and not noticing. Rowan clutched my hand during the ride. I was too terrified to notice.

I had moved in with her, into their home, one month after the funeral. Mom and Dad, their health failing, sold their house and rented a small room in a retirement home. Rowan was having trouble paying the bills. It only made sense. I took the room that was eventually to have become a nursery, but she didn't tell me that until months later, drunk and sobbing into my shirt.

I tuck my arm under her now, brush fingertips on her velvet shoulder. Her head is a heavy and perfect weight on my shoulder.

I breathe the gathering night, dampness and lingering warmth, tasting apricots. She's forgotten about dessert but that's okay. I would rather have her nestled here against me, as dangerous as that is.

She turns against me, her arm reaching over my stomach, chin in my chest. She grabs the bottle of wine and chugs from it. I feel her throat swallow. Droplets cling to her lips as she offers me the bottle. I lift my head and chug. Our eyes meet as I drink and she has smiles in them, although her lips do not move.

"Why do you stay with me, sweet Ellis?" she asks, her chin digging deeper as she speaks, her voice a rumble against my chest.

Because I love you. "Because I want to," I tell her honestly.

She nods, eyes searching mine. My heart is slamming and I'm sure she knows it. Her lips twitch into a grin.

"Why do you let me stay?" I swallow and ask her.

She considers this question and her answer, but her eyes never leave mine. "Sometimes you remind me of him."

This answer hurts and she seems to know this because she rests her hand on my stomach and twirls her finger against my shirt there.

"But really, you're Ellis. And I really like Ellis. My cowboy." She presses her lips against my chest briefly, makes a happy smacking sound and smiles.

I can say nothing because my innards are in my throat, except for my heart which races under her. Her tenderness towards me, although frequent and always painful, feels different this time. More purposeful. Perhaps my drunken imagination.

"Do you love me, Ellis?" she asks and my body is ice.

I swallow and nod, the stars breaking out above us. The admission feels like a beast let loose to snarl and rip and tear and roar, yet the air is just as still as it was a moment ago.

And then she looks away, at her hand toying with the buttons at my belly. She slides her hand under my shirt and my skin shivers. I dare not breathe. She sighs and rests her head against my shoulder again.

"I knew it when we met, you know," she tells me simply. "I felt it every time Jonah touched me or kissed me when you were near." Her hand stretches against my skin, my hot cold skin.

We lie there for so many minutes I can't believe I'm still alive. My body is rigid, I'm too terrified to move and hardly even breathe. The idea of doing anything more than this moment gives me is preposterous.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Ellis," she says and moves her hand up my chest under my shirt. It's a tight fit, but her hand is so slender.

"I don't think I can think," I admit.

"Do you want to know what I'm thinking?" she finally asks after a long moment, her voice thick and fuzzy.

"Yes," I admit.

"That the stars are lovely, that you smell perfect, that you feel perfect, and that I am very drunk." And her hand slides out. She weaves her fingers into the base of my shirt and slowly begins to pop the buttons out of their tidy little holes. The night air is cool on my dry chest, but bursts into flames as she moves over it in slow caresses. "And that I have been very... very... lonely."

She meets my eyes again and I see the pain in there. I furrow my brow in matching pain and confusion. "Tell me what you want," I beg and hope that she wants me, but brace myself to learn that she wants nothing more than this moment.

"My sweet Ellis," she breathes and props herself up, fingers still moving over my exposed chest.

And the pain gathers itself up into a ball inside me and unleashes as barely contained rage. I grab her hand, even relish in her gasp. "Stop unless you want..." I start and can't continue. My eyes dig into her, try to fathom her feminine depths.

"Want you?" she asks, her smile dancing.

"Yes," I answer, my fingers so tight around her hand I can feel her bones grinding.

Her response is so soft, like the starlight on us. "I do."

My brain, my body, without a thought, I clutch my other hand into her liquid hair and launch myself at her lips. Shaking so hard I feel feverish, my lips pour out every fantasy kiss that's ever run through my desperate thoughts since I first met her. I cringe with the pain of it but can't stop, can't stop. I let go of her hand and grasp my fingers at her face and feel the electricity there. My kisses are so desperate and devouring it takes many moments for me to realize hers are just as fervent as mine. My fingers brush wetness on her cheeks and the shock of it pulls me away from her, our lips sticky and unwilling to let go. I regard the tears on her face with confusion, touch them softly. My eyes beg her to tell me she's sure she wants this. I can't make the words come. She sniffles and nods, tears clinging to her lips as she laughs warmly at my concern.

"So much," she tells me, her voice shaking and laughing, happy. "You have no idea how much."

So I kiss her again, just as hungrily but now softer and sweeter and slower, tasting her tears. It's the way I would kiss her under the stars in my dreams and fantasies. And now it's real. Her lips less sweet than I imagined, more pesto-y, but just as delicious. I roll her backwards against the grass, my body rigid over hers as she melts against me. Her hands stroke my arms as I nibble kisses at her throat.

Lust makes me clumsy and I can't figure out how to untie her vest. She chuckles into my kiss and helps, drawing the fabric aside to reveal breasts I knew would be perfect, tipped with pale pink. I knew because I've studied her figure a thousand million times before, in person, in my mind, in photos. I know them and yet the reality of them is so magical that I just admire them as she breathes and watches me. They taste as sweet as I imagined her lips would. I cup one as I suckle, maybe a little too hard but she doesn't seem to mind as she runs fingers through my hair.

When she pops the button of my jeans out, unzips me slowly, I huff in the perfume of her hair and run fingers from her shoulder to her elbow and back again. When she slides her hand inside, I blush at how hot and hard she finds me. Her eyes just twinkle at me as I pant. She runs a thumb over the tip and it just feels so wet and perfect that I gnaw at my lip.

Over her skirt I cup my hand, fingers searching. I rub when she gasps, desperation making me rough. I tuck my hand under the elastic of the skirt, find her thin cotton panties and slide over them. I think they're the ones with butterflies embroidered on them. I just washed those yesterday, hanging them to dry in the sun because she hates to waste electricity on the dryer.

My fingers dig behind her panties and find her soft hair. Finding hair is almost a novelty nowadays, and it arouses me fiercely. I look in her eyes as they gloss over while my finger rubs around the entrance of her pussy, my thumb a pressure on her clit. Her hand has begun a slow stroke on my cock. And still we just gaze at each other.

She helps to pull her skirt and panties off, and I help to remove my jeans and boxers. She sits to slide her vest off her arms and pulls my shirt off mine, hands following the contours of my muscles. And then we're naked in the summer night, kitchen and moon light glowing on us.

When we kiss next I forget that we have bodies, even naked bodies. All I can do is touch her face, the silk of her hair, her ears. I move my mouth against her cheek and tell her the things I always wanted to. She's here, listening, hearing, and wanting to hear.

"Rowan I love you so completely. I want to do so many things to you. Please let me do things to you. Please just let me. I love you so much," I breathe all in a rush against the damp roses of her cheek.

She shakes with what could be laughter or pleasure or both. "Do things to me, cowboy. Make me love you. I think I could," she whispers back and I cringe in painful hope.

I kneel in the grass, soft as a bed, and pull her towards me. She wraps pale thighs around my hips, slender arms around my neck, and nuzzles her nose against my cheek, smiling something small and secret. I breathe in her ear and she must hear how rough my breaths become as she finds my cock and rubs herself against it, hair tickling and teasing. I groan and even find myself whimpering.

"Fuck me, cowboy. Fuck me slow and hard," she says against my cheek and then pulls away and looks at me. She watches my face as I slide inside her. Her wetness. Her warmth. Her silken tightness. My eyes widen and clench all at once and I bite my lip to keep from gasping, but do anyways. When I'm in she finally tilts her head back, eyes half-lidded and lets out a long, slow breath. I lick at her throat as I slide out again, push slowly back in, driving my cock deep.

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