Give Yourself Up

The idea for this brief tale came to me this morning, watching my wife deal with a nasty cold. Later, she was feeling better and we went to a movie. The fragment of the Rumi poem was quoted in the movie. It seemed perfect for the story. When we got home, I went to the computer and banged it out.

It's quite different from most of my submissions but I hope at least a few people with enjoy it.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for editing. My fingers have never been able to keep up with my brain. Without his help, I doubt most readers would be able to put up with the typos and silly errors.

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He had been sitting there for so long he no longer noticed the chaos surrounding him. Very few people realize how noisy hospitals are. Telephones ring. Call lights chirp. Families talk or yell or wail. Alarms sound. The sick, if they were sick enough, didn't care. Family and friends focused on the sick or, like him, had become inured of the chaos. His focus was always the woman lying in the bed.

The nurses paid him no heed. He would shift his legs, this way or that, to give them room to roll her from one side to the other, to do whatever it was they did to the tube that connected her lungs to the ventilator. Twice a day, someone would bend and stretch her arms, her legs. They bathed her with a tenderness that, even after all this time, caused his eyes to well. Then, they would leave them alone.

He forgot to be hungry or thirsty. She had not spoken, not in all the time he had been there, sitting and waiting, beside her bed. He would recite the bits of poetry he knew she liked and that his mind managed to retain. He would walk to the door, determined to go find a book, a magazine, something to read to her but he couldn't bring himself to cross the threshold of her room. What if she woke and he wasn't there to greet her? What if she lapsed back into her deep sleep before he had a chance to talk with her? Or, at the least, to smile into her open eyes?

When they were alone he would lean over the bed, hold her hand, and tell her his favorite memories.

Remember that night in the Tetons? They had huddled together in a much too thin sleeping bag, giggling at the idea they'd be found frozen to death in each other arms.

Remember your hatchback? And how dark and creepy that small road was, the one we pulled off on because we couldn't bear another minute of not being able to touch each other? Even their still young, still lithe, bodies had trouble contorting to fit in the back of her small car. After, they had been afraid that like every couple who had sex in the dark woods in movies, they'd be hacked to bits as they scrambled to get back into the front seat and make their escape. Back on the road there were more giggles. They had shared many giggles together.

Not all the memories were happy. The seemingly endless number of times they sat side by side on the edge of the tub, heads touching, waiting for the second pink line to appear; it never did.

Remember that time, sweetheart, in Central Park?

It had been a warm early spring day. They weren't married yet. They had been in town for interviews. Young. Beautiful day. Beautiful woman. They had wandered off the paved path, up a hill and into a copse of trees crowned with bright, new, spring leaves. The last of the fall leaves rustled under their feet. She knelt, unbuttoned his jeans, and pulled out his cock. He loved the way her mouth felt on his cock; he always had and always would. A small mutt of a dog wandered in and sat watching, appearing to be fascinated by what she was doing. A voice had called out. The dog jerked its head toward the voice, its ears perking up. The vision of a stranger walking under the trees, looking for a dog but seeing her with his dick in her mouth drew a deep groan from his chest. Close on the heels of his groan, he'd cum. She jerked away in surprise, not expecting him to cum so soon. There was cum in her hair and on her blouse and she had not been pleased. It wasn't that he came in her mouth; it was her blouse she was irritated over. The dog had sprinted away. He kissed her and apologized and made it up to her by slipping her very tight jeans down and wedging enough of his face between her thighs to reach her clit with his tongue. By the time she'd let go of his hair and he'd stood up to kiss her, his hands on her bare ass, all had been forgiven. Remember that silly little dog and how I accidently came on your shirt? Jesus, that was fun. He shook his head smiling.

I can't believe you said yes. I was young and dumb but how I could have thought my idea was 'romantic' is beyond reasoning. They had been apart for most of the summer. She'd been in Boston, working as an intern at the firm that would in a few months become her first job. She'd driven to Boston, a mistake. She didn't need the car and parking it was a bitch, an expensive bitch. He'd flown in to drive back with her. He'd been so nervous. It had put her on edge. As desperate as he'd been to get her in bed, he first wanted to wash his face and brush his teeth. Plus, he needed a minute of privacy. He stood by the bed and undressed her, his lips hardly moving from hers. She sat on the side of the bed and began to undress him. After pulling his boxers down, she looked up puzzled. It took her a moment but when she looked up he saw that she'd understood. He dropped to his knees, suddenly embarrassed. Will you marry me? He whispered the words, or that's the way he remembered it. She'd said yes, despite the fact he'd tied her engagement ring to his dick with a piece of red silk ribbon. Now, leaning over her bed, holding her hand, whispering in her ear, the memory still embarrassed him. She had never once teased him over the idiotic act.

I wish you could have seen yourself, standing there. I know we have a million pictures but they failed, miserably, to capture how beautiful you looked standing there in your simple white dress. I wish, even if it was just for a minute, you could get inside my skull, inside my brain, and see yourself as I see you.

He stroked her arm. Kissed her temple.

I love your body, love your skin, so soft but I hate it, too. It may be soft but it keeps me from you. It's an unbreakable barrier. When I was on top of you, or you were on top of me, or we were wrapped in each other's arms, catching our breath, me softening and slipping out of you, I wanted to melt into you; I wanted to disappear inside you; I wanted to live there, inside you. I want to fade into you now, right this second, not stand here and touch your skin because that's the best I can do. That sucks. It fucking sucks.

Remember the first time we made love? I was so scared. I'd never been afraid before because it had never mattered before. It's not that I didn't want to be a good lover to the handful of women I slept with before you but I knew, I think they knew as well, that we were just having fun. I wasn't 'just having fun' with you and that had terrified me. You were wearing...

He'd touched the soft cotton bikini-style panties, white, purple flowers and a tiny purple bow, with fingers that had been shaking. His shirt had been tossed to the floor earlier, hers lay on top of his. She still wore her bra when he tugged her jeans off her hips, then off her legs. The front of her panties had grown dark with her excitement. He'd been able to smell her pussy, clearly, in the small room. It made him feel drunk. He'd scooted back up in the bed and resumed kissing her as his fingers rubbed her panties. His fingers forced the fabric into her slit. He touched her clitoris and she had moaned into his mouth. She'd been the one to take off her bra. He slipped off the panties with the lovely purple flowers. He sniffed them, not bothering to hide the fact from her. She told him to take off his pants. I'm not wearing underwear. She had smiled and told him, "good". He'd begun to shiver, kneeling between her legs, gazing at her loveliness, holding his cock. Her smile had been the key. She smiled and nodded and opened herself to him and he went into her and found bliss. After, he'd trembled in her arms and she'd whispered in his ear, like he was whispering in hers now.

He recalled how, when she'd been sick with a cold and couldn't sleep; she would ask him to help her masturbate. This, despite the fact she was feeling about as unsexy as she possibly could. He would lie down beside her and nuzzle her neck. He loved her more than life but saw no reason to kiss her and risk catching her cold. What good would that have done? Sometimes he would play with her breasts while she rubbed herself. Other times, he would do the rubbing. After she came, she would sleep. She always said an orgasm was better than Nyquil.

He looked around. The lights were down. It was late. Someone would be in to check on her in an hour or so but the daily routine of stretching and bathing was done. Still, they wouldn't like it, wouldn't like it all.

She had always been a wee bit of a thing. Now she was even smaller. He lowered the railing on his side of the bed and managed to climb in with her. One arm curved above her head. His right leg rested atop hers. I hope I'm not too heavy, sweetheart. His right hand wormed its way beneath the blanket. He pulled her gown up. His fingers knew right where to go. He touched her, softly. He pulled his hand back, wet his fingers. There was no time for kissing, even if kissing was possible with that hateful tube in her mouth. He didn't expect her to be wet, to be aroused. He wet his fingers and began to pet the tiny jewel that crowned her sex.

He listened. He knew she couldn't talk around the tube that connected her to the machine that breathed for her but he listened anyway.

Mmm.

Does that feel okay? Too rough? Too dry? Should I wet my fingers again?

No, feels lovely. It seems like it's been a long time. Where have you been?

It has, sweetheart, too long. I was away but I'm here now. Are you feeling better?

Keep doing that and I'll be feeling great.

He smiled. He felt her hips wiggling beneath him. A fragment of one of her favorite poems came to him, by Rumi he thought.

Listen, O drop, give yourself up without regret,
and in exchange gain the Ocean.

He whispered in her ear. Her body tensed, then her hips bucked.

Oh my, Jesus, babe that felt good. I'd forgotten how good.

He was crying now. Silent tears ran down his cheeks as he rested on one elbow and looked into her eyes. She was smiling.

Listen, O drop, give yourself up without regret, he whispered again. It's time to go, my love. Are you ready?

Her smile widened as she nodded. He stood up, held out his hand. She took it and he helped her out of the bed. She folded herself into his arms and he hugged her. She stepped back and looked down at herself.

I don't have any clothes, babe.

You'll be fine. Come on. Let's go, shall we?

She looked over her shoulder at the quiet form lying under the cover.

That was me?

No, honey, this has always been you, the real you.

An alarm began to sound, voices called, and equipment clattered, but his attention was on her.

She wiped his cheeks, took his hand. They stepped through the window and walked into a night filled with stars, all of them twinkling.

She remembered a book, a favorite, about a lamb, a rose, a Prince and a pilot. "Listen," she whispered, bringing his hand to her lips. "All the stars are laughing."