The Seventh Hymn

Ketchum interrupted her. "It doesn't matter, Tucker."

"Huh?"

"It doesn't matter. No one's going to publish it."

"What? What do you mean?"

"It's fiction, Tucker. It's not scholarship, it's a romantic fantasy." He saw that she was becoming distressed and he grinned gamely. "Come on, no one's going to publish any of it. All those other essays -- if they lead to that one, then it's all just fluff."

Lacey suddenly understood what he meant, and that he might be right. She was stunned. Her voice cracked. "So what you're saying is... what? ... that we ruined it?" She felt wounded.

Ketchum was calm. "It's okay. I like it. I'm glad I wrote it. Like I said, this is only a hobby." He raised his palms in resignation. "I guess I'm saying that I don't need to publish it, I just needed to write it."

"No!" Lacey closed her laptop and picked it up. "Just let me think!" She left for the guest room, trying not to cry. Her emotions were boiling, cresting. Ketchum had listened to her. And written the most beautiful essay -- practically just for her. It was she who had recognized it as poetry. Then she'd had the sweetest fuck of her life. Now it was all shit. And she was exhausted.

She heard Ketchum puttering in the kitchen -- doing what? There was nothing to do. She lay on the unmade twin bed for a long while, letting herself think whatever she thought. It came to her as suddenly as the poem had. She sat up and scratched her neck. Of course. Of course. "Ketch!!" she called.

She didn't wait for a response, but hurried to the kitchen. He wasn't there. To the living room, where he sat in plain sight. "Ketch, I've got it. We just submit the six. Easy, right? Oxford or Cambridge -- you choose. But we just submit the six. They're very serious, totally scholarly. You wait until they're sold -- no, wait until you're practically in production, way past second thoughts. Then you give them number seven."

Pleased with her idea, she watched him for a response. He smiled wanly. It wasn't crazy, or dishonest. No one needed to know that he and Lacey had written a seventh Hymn, not yet, maybe not ever. He exhaled. "Okay. Tucker, you're right. We can try it." Then he added, "That means we're done, I guess."

They made the poor, but excusable decision to celebrate at Scotty's. Zoe had saved his table, even though he'd seldom been in lately. But it was much too loud, and they were much too tired to enjoy drinking. Worse, each of them was keenly aware that no one at Scotty's had the slightest idea what they had been through, and no one there cared about Novalis and Sophie. Understandable, to be sure, but they were in the wrong place. After a single drink and an appetizer of greasy potato skins, Lacey apologized. "I'm pretty tired, Ketch. I'm thinking I should get home."

Ketchum patted the tabletop in agreement, relieved that she had made the first move. "Me, too, Tucker. I'm going to do this Scotch, but I'm leaving, too." Then he suggested, "Bring your car tomorrow, okay? You have a lot of gear to take home. Kitchen stuff, too, right?" Lacey got up to leave.

Their parting Friday morning was just as clumsy. Lacey overslept, then drove to Ketchum's, but couldn't find a legal parking space. She parked in a spot for residents only, inviting a ticket, but hoping for the best. In the house, they had no opportunity for a fond or extended leave-taking because Rose arrived, almost at the same time as Lacey, to begin cleaning. Ketchum had collected the BDSM gear, including the one-bar prison, and had it waiting in boxes in the living room. Lacey filled a box in the kitchen with her slow cooker, Tupperware containers and the like, and another in the bedroom with clothes. When Rose saw all the boxes, she said, "Oh, Miss Lacey, you are leaving?" Lacey looked at Ketchum and tried to smile but found it difficult. Rose shook her hand. "But I am glad to meet you, Miss Lacey." Lacey began to choke up and could only nod her thanks.

As she and Ketchum carried boxes outside, Lacey noticed a parking cop up the street heading, naturally, towards her car. Shit! She went back inside for another box and ran with it to her car. She called and waved to the parking guy, who ignored her. She put the box down and ran to accost him. "Don't ticket that red Honda, okay? I'm just loading some boxes, okay?"

He replied laconically, "Then I guess you'll be hurrying, lady."

"Asshole!" she muttered as she ran back to the house. On her way in, she told Ketch to load the boxes already on the sidewalk, "and don't let him ticket me!" She brought out the last box and hurried to her car. Ketchum was closing the hatchback. She threw the box in the backseat and slammed the door. The parking guy was only one car away. She gave Ketchum a pat on the chest and a peck on the cheek. "Oxford, okay? Keep me posted." She pressed the house key into his hand and Ketchum bowed. "Yes, ma'am."

She got into the car, started the engine and pulled out of her illegal parking spot, wondering if she could plausibly, accidentally run over the asshole parking guy. He stepped out of the way. Remembering a final detail, she lowered her window and yelled at Ketchum, "What's my passcode?"

"What?!"

"My passcode!"

Ketchum glanced at the parking guy and decided not to shout it at her. "I'll text you!" Lacey waved and raised her window, watching Ketchum wave back in the rear-view mirror. Less than a minute later her phone chimed with a text. She glanced at the screen.

- 696746. It spells NYMPHO

She stifled a laugh. Then wiped her cheek as she drove away.

* * * * *

Ketchum was right. She could track his phone. Sunday morning he was in the grocery store.

Ketchum shuffled absently through the store, pushing a nearly empty cart. He hardly knew why he had come, though it had seemed a good idea at the time. He had just left the produce section when he saw her, a trim figure with a ponytail, in blue scrubs. His heart rose as he watched her buying fish. Smiling, he left his cart to surprise her.

When he got within ten feet, he saw it wasn't Lacey. Why had he thought it was? Hoping his foolishness wasn't obvious, he shuffled back to his cart, his head down.

Lacey was waiting for him at the cart in her sweatshirt and jeans. She had watched him the whole way there and back. Watching had nearly made her cry. She hugged him and they kissed. She lifted her arms to encircle his neck. She stopped kissing to tell him something important. Close to his ear, she whispered, "We're going to go hug and kiss and have vanilla sex." He nodded. Her gaze then surveyed the gawking shoppers. They were few in number and stood watching silently, respectfully. With the faintest smile of relief and triumph, Lacey lifted her chin and led Ketchum out of the store. They left the cart.