On the Edge

He wondered where to start, and how much was too much to share.

"You have any more of that booze?" she asked. "I feel like I could use a drink."

"Sure thing," he said. He poured each of them a generous drink and took a gulp of his. The pleasant burn down his throat warmed him.

"My wife died," he said. "She had cancer. She was sick for years. She would get better, and then it always returned. She was... she started to give up. She let go of her dreams, one by one. It was like the world's slowest heartbreak. I did what I could, but I didn't... I couldn't... there was nothing."

Natasha made a small, understanding noise, but didn't comment.

"She was... her name was Lina. She loved Christmas, had all these quirky traditions she always..."

He trailed off, swallowing hard, then took a swig of his drink and sighed.

"Well. So she died almost two years ago, in the spring. And I just couldn't deal with it. I couldn't stay where everything reminded me of her, and what we had together. I sold all of it and came here. My grandpa built this cabin, and my dad loved this place, always tinkering around. And then I just stayed, because I've got nothing to go back to, anywhere. I'm a writer, but I haven't been able to write after Lina died. I'm just... I'm..."

"You're hiding, outside of life," Natasha suggested.

"Yes," he said, and poured himself more. "That's a fair assessment."

She waited, and when he didn't continue, Natasha emptied her glass and poured another. She straightened her scrawny legs and wiggled her toes in the too-big woolly socks she had borrowed for the night.

"Want to hear my story?" she asked. "I'm not sure if I can tell you. But I'm also not sure I'll be able to stop if I start talking."

"I think I do," he said. "Hurt for hurt, huh?"

"Just so," she said, sagging a bit. "I'm sorry about your wife. About Lina."

"Thank you."

Natasha looked down, blinking, then back up to the fire. She took a sip of whiskey, but her hand was shaking and she lowered the glass on the floor absentmindedly.

"I had..." she started, then stopped. "No. I was, no. Wait."

She sat thinking, biting her lip.

"I met Timmy when I was twenty-five," she said. "It was love at first sight. We got married three years later. His parents hated me. They were rich and thought he should've done better, should've chosen someone more sophisticated and ladylike, but he defended me. He always stood up for me. We had a boy, a year after the wedding. Mark, after my dad. And a year after that, a daughter. Stephanie, after his mum."

She pinched the bridge of her nose and her shoulders tensed. After a moment, she exhaled and continued.

"It was like a fairytale. We had this perfect house, and perfect family. But it was so much. I was busy all the time, and do you know how hard it is to have children so close apart? It was wonderful for a while. I was so happy. But it started getting to me, you know? I was working, something my in-laws always criticized. I really don't understand them. At first they hated me for supposedly being after his money, and then they hated me for making a living.

"But what was I saying? Yes, I was working, and we had au pair living with us, but she needed instructions for everything. There was always so much to do, too much, you understand? Timmy was working as hard as me, and sometimes it felt like we didn't see each other all week, and hardly even on weekends. And I was never, ever, EVER alone. The kids followed me even to the bathroom, they came to our bed at night and kicked so I couldn't sleep. They were in my face all the time when I was at home. And when I was at work, my bosses and my coworkers were in my face, and there was just too much of everything."

She drew her legs close to her body again and curled into a ball. She was being intense now, sounding desperate for him to understand.

He didn't understand, not really. His life had been full, but never like that; as a writer he'd always formed his own schedules, creativity wasn't governed by bosses and schedules. Lina's treatments had filled many of the days of his life, but it had been only her. He had the opportunity to focus wholly on supporting her. As hard as it was, he hadn't needed to divide his attention, or handle many commitments simultaneously.

Natasha continued. "Timmy's mum turned sixty and they had this massive party. They invited us, of course. They loved to show off their son and grandkids. Mark was four and Stephanie was three, and I just knew how horrible it would be in this pretentious cocktail party with them, listening to my in-laws jab at me whenever I was near enough to hear.

"So I refused to go. Timmy understood, though he still wanted to go. So he and the kids left. I was so relieved. I would have two days of my own time, even the au pair had time off. I could be just alone, in silence, with nobody there."

Her voice had gone lifeless, void of feeling. She still stared at the fire, and Andrew didn't dare move for fear of breaking the moment.

"It was a long drive," she said. "And always so difficult with the kids. They had their car seats on opposite ends in the back, but they'd still reach each other to fight. They would scream, and want snacks, and then push their juice cartons over and make a mess, and just whatever.

"The police officer said Timmy lost control of the vehicle, probably because he was reaching back to sort out the kids. There was oil on the road, leaked from some other car. Not much, but enough for him to start skidding. They hit a rock cutting at the side of the freeway. They all died instantly."

It was very quiet, only the fire crackled and hissed. Andrew leaned over to pour Natasha more whiskey. She didn't react.

"Then it was like it was for you," she said. "I couldn't stay. Timmy had a life insurance policy, so I wouldn't be at his parents' mercy with the kids if something happened to him. So I had money. I quit my job, sold the house with everything in it, and had my lawyer search for the most remote place he could find. This was what he found."

For the first time since she had started talking, Natasha looked at Andrew. Light from the fireplace flickered on her face. Her eyes were very large and dark in the dusk.

"I came here to die," she said. "My life ended in that moment on that stretch of oily road. I thought I'd die from the pain alone."

He nodded. He knew that feeling. Natasha turned her eyes back to the fire.

"Then, when I didn't, I started flirting with death. I thought I'd swim so far out I wouldn't have the strength to swim back. But I always got back to the shore. I thought I'd swim to the current and hit the rocks. But somehow I never quite did."

She took her glass again. Her hand was still shaking, though less now.

"So, that night in the storm..." he asked quietly.

"Yes," she said. "I was going to jump. I couldn't bring myself to drown, and I figured falling would be faster, would require less willpower. One step and it would be all over. I thought it was the weather for it."

"You were screaming. I've never heard a sound like that."

"I couldn't do it. I tried my hardest. I didn't want to live. Hell, I still don't want to live. But no matter how much I wanted to die, I couldn't make myself do it. I pushed myself until I broke, but I just couldn't."

"I was afraid for you. You were so close to the edge. If the wind had eased just the tiniest bit, you would've fallen."

"Yeah. I know. And it didn't. How fucked up is that? The tiniest moment, one gust just a little weaker than the next. The smallest break. Just like it was the smallest coincidence, the tiniest moment in time, that killed..."

She halted. Carefully, he reached over and touched her back. She didn't shake his hand off. He held his palm flat on her upper back for a moment before withdrawing it.

"So, what do you have left when you can't even kill yourself?" she asked bitterly. "What do you do? Where do you go?"

"You come here," he said. "To this beach at the end of the world and wait to wither away. Wait for the morning when you forget to wake up."

"Yes," she agreed. "That's what we're both doing, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said. "That's what we're both doing. You want another drink?"

She did, and he added a few logs to the fireplace. When he sat back down, Natasha pulled her stool closer to him and he wrapped his arm around her. She leaned on him lightly. Neither of them commented on it. She felt delicate—her shoulder blades sticking out like the cut-off wings of an angel.

They sat together in companionable silence and watched the fire. It was that certain point in the night when the entire world holds its breath waiting for the birth of a new day, and everything seems a little unreal. The whiskey made Andrew's limbs pleasantly heavy and he thought he might sleep after all.

Around five, Natasha said she would try to sleep again, since Santa Claus apparently wasn't coming. He bid her good night, stoked the fire once more and climbed up to his bedroom. Fire had warmed the cabin, especially the upstairs, but he made sure there were extra blankets nearby because he knew morning would be chilly.

He lay curled up under his blankets and thought about her story. He had guessed she had a story, and not a nice one. It was heartbreaking, and he could feel her self-accusations and guilt. He imagined himself in her position, but couldn't quite get over the bitterness brought on by the thought she at least had a family and children. He had spent years in and out of hospitals trying to cast groundless faith in his ever-frailer ghost of a wife, never even close to having children.

He tried to imagine what their kids would've looked like, how they would've been. He remembered imagining them with Lina, when they'd first fallen in love, when she had still been healthy and future had held promises of life instead of death. He felt the familiar squeeze of pain in his chest and tried to think of something else, anything.

He must've fallen asleep, because he woke to a muffled scream. He was wildly disoriented, not understanding what the noise was or where it was coming from, and he had fumbled to his feet and down the stairs before he was fully conscious.

Natasha was having a nightmare, thrashing around, half awake. He sat on the side of the bed and reached to touch her. She jerked and sat up abruptly.

"Hush," he said quietly. "Tasha, wake up. It's just a dream."

She was slow to get to her senses, still absolutely terrified. It was so dark he couldn't see her, and he kept his hands on her, kept talking to her, so she wouldn't spook.

"It was a dream, Tasha. You're alright. You're at my cabin, do you remember? Andrew's cabin? Your neighbor's? You're safe. Calm down."

She was shivering, and he stroked the side of her arm slowly. She resembled a scared animal, trembling in place, every muscle tensed to escape. Slowly he pulled her in for a hug. She was still shaking, and she gripped him so tightly it was difficult to believe she had such strength in her lithe body. He held her harder, trying to calm her. He kept talking to her, gentle nothings, and gradually she became still.

"Better?" he asked. "Want me to stay here with you? I think it will be morning soon."

"Would you?" she asked hoarsely.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "You'll be alright."

He settled down next to her, still holding her close. His heart swelled; he had been protective to begin with, but dealing with Lina had left him with an intense need to take care of other people. He hadn't quite faced it before, being on his own, but now it overwhelmed him and he tried to just calm down and channel it into being gentle and assuring.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "The dream, I mean?"

"I don't remember," she whispered. "But I don't... I haven't... I don't think I've dreamt at all since... you know."

"Oh," he said. He remembered the first few months after Lina's death. He had relied heavily on medication to sleep and it was all such a blur he had no idea how his dreams had been, or not been. "I might have some sleeping pills left. Want me to check?"

"No. Just don't go."

"I won't," he whispered. "Don't fear."

The bed in his spare bedroom wasn't wide, and they were very close. He could feel her slim body against his and his heart was singing with how she relaxed, knowing his comfort helped her. Gradually his emotions shifted as they lay there and he worried he would get aroused and freak her out. As soon as he thought it, he felt his penis stir. He twitched uncomfortably and cursed in his mind. It was just like him to ruin a good thing.

"What is it?" she asked, when he moved clumsily to find a position where he wouldn't be poking her with his growing erection.

"I'm just... I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I don't mean to. It's just been a long time."

"Oh?" she said, and he could hear her confusion. She turned over and as his stiff shaft pressed against her thigh she said, "Oh! I see."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Look, maybe I should go."

"Please don't," she said. She pressed closer into his arms, and he sighed and pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

"So... exactly how long has it been?" she asked.

"Oh, um, gee," he said. "Well, a long fucking time, actually. Since Lina died. And before that, she was very sick for a very long time."

"So you haven't..."

Her hand moved from his back, slowly gliding towards his side, searching for the hem of his flannel pajama shirt. He held his breath when she found it, and her slim fingers touched his skin for the first time.

"I never cheated on her," he said. "Though she suggested it at one point. But how could I? How could I when she lay there dying? But I jerk off, of course. And even that... it's been a while. I haven't exactly been in the mood."

"So you don't really want me? You're not in the mood? It's just been so long?"

His breath hitched when he felt her lips graze the line of his chin. Her touch was light, and he felt his whole body develop goosebumps before she found her way to the corner of his mouth and kissed it softly.

"Tasha," he sighed. He didn't know what to say, what she wanted him to say. Yes, he wanted her, more by the second, but this wasn't right. He had invited her over, promising not to hit on her, and now here they were.

"And-drew," she said. "Do you want me to stop?"

Her lips skimmed his cheek, invoking more goosebumps, and he sighed when she found his earlobe, kissed it softly, then sucked it into her mouth. Her warm, wet suckling shot straight to his crotch, making his cock twitch and him moan.

"No," he whispered, and turned his head to receive her kiss.

Their lips touching was like an electric shock. It was very light, the smallest sweep of her lips against his, and they both paused, stunned. He wanted to say something, let her know he didn't want to hurt her, let her know she meant more to him than this, but she kissed him again and he forgot what he wanted to say.

Slowly and respectfully, they touched and undressed each other. Tasha was slim to the point of being bony, but she was warm, her skin soft and smooth. He let his hands trace the curve of her hip slowly. She opened her thighs for his hand, and when he found her slick heat he trembled with anticipation. It had been so long, since he'd last been here, in this hot, wet pressure, this scent, so different but somehow the same. He wanted to breathe it in, lose himself in her. He pushed his thigh between hers, opening her up. She lifted her hips to meet his hand.

She kissed him, her intensity growing with the same pace that he felt her pussy responding to him. She let out a low whimper as her hand searched for his hard, hot shaft. He twitched, every touch so intense now, her small hand so alien yet so welcome.

They fondled each other, silently measuring each other. Andrew moved on top of her, wanting to go down on her, but she wanted him inside her. They negotiated wordlessly, and when she didn't give in, he whispered, "Please."

She let out an impatient moan, but let him go. He kissed down her body, marvelling at how she tensed up under him, how different her shape was from his own. How soft her breasts were, how wonderful the small, tight nipples topping them. He kissed her stomach, so soft and tender, and he would've lingered there, wondering about the small, slick scars, but she pushed him down. He breathed in, deeply, and licked her open slowly, starting from near her perineum and wiggling his way upwards. She arched up and trembled.

Andrew loved eating pussy and had no idea if he would ever get to it with her again, so he held her hips and tried to slow her down. She didn't want to, she was moaning almost constantly, and her fingers tugged at his hair. He tasted her, opening her folds to explore, and she lifted her hips to meet his mouth. His heart jolted at the small sounds she made as he penetrated her with his tongue. With some regret, he stopped stalling and moved to her clitoris. He had a feel of her now and could tell she would come soon. That was its own reward, though, and so he circled her bud carefully with the tip of his tongue, then gently sucked it between his lips.

He wanted to feel her come, so he shifted his weight to get his other hand free. He kept suckling, flicking her with his tongue, and when he touched her opening, her whimpers pitched higher. He felt her tense, the pause before the explosion, the calm before the storm, and then she got there, wave after wave of orgasmic bliss washing over her, squeezing his finger, her entire body moving with it. He slowed, riding her waves then let go of her clit, kissing it softly goodbye. He kept his finger inside her for a moment longer, kissing up from her mons, and felt how her stomach rose and fell with her jerky breaths. He was so hard it hurt.

Tasha had come hard, and Lina had always needed a breather after an orgasm like that. But Tasha wasn't Lina. To Andrew's amazement, she forcefully pulled him up to her arms and tangled her legs with his. Her hand reached between them, demanding, aligning him to her wonderful heat.

He didn't question it. His urge took over, and he felt his whole body tense in concentration when he started gliding inside her. She clung to him with her arms and legs, tilting her hips up to meet him, her breath hot on his face. He breathed out and pressed into her unbelievable fiery cunt, deeper, deeper, as slowly as he could force himself to go. Aftershocks of her orgasm squeezed him. He let his weight on one elbow, wrapped his other arm around her pelvis, possessively, and pushed deep inside.

He rolled his hips against hers, pressing his temple against hers.

"You feel amazing," he whispered. "I'm not gonna last."

"Ah," she breathed and moved against him, with him, around him. "I don't need you to."

"Uh huh, honey," he said, in a desperate, breathless moan, when she squeezed him with her internal muscles. "Please. Have some mercy."

"Just let it go," she said, with some urgent passion he couldn't quite interpret. "Don't try."

He didn't really know what she was saying, he was beyond interpreting words. His hips started moving on their own. He wanted to stay deep, and so he pulled out slowly and rammed back in fast, then accelerated without any thought or meaning. He could feel the storm building inside him, his core tightening, his body tensing.

Tasha moved with him, her hands everywhere—on his back, his ass, his hair. He growled, a deep rumbling voice. She opened her legs wider to take him deeper and he gripped her hips, slamming her hard again and again. He was on the edge, building so fast he almost didn't recognize his orgasm before plummeting over. His grip of Tasha tightened, he sucked on the base of her neck, almost biting her, as his hips jerked against hers in insistent need, then he froze and released jet after jet inside her. His toes curled, he gasped for breath, and he felt the slick sweat between them.