Page 53 of Bitter Burn
She turns her head to the side, her face in profile. Her nose and cheekbones glisten, and water runs off the tip of her jaw. I’m gratified to see that the apples of her cheeks are growing flushed, that her lips are their usual shell-pink hue.
She seems like she’s about to speak, but then she stops herself. Looks away.
I don’t press.
I rinse her hair once again, and then I soap her limbs, softly but decorously, not lingering over her breasts or the exquisite dimples at the small of her back that I could watch glisten forever. But the webs between her fingers, the elegant fluting of her spine between her shoulder blades, the rounded slopes of her calves… I can’t resist tarrying for a moment or two.
I’ve washed her and Tristan both like this before, but I could never get sick of it. How could you get sick of looking at your entire life, bound up in shower-flushes and water-laced eyelashes, standing sweetly right in front of you?
We finish, and I have Isolde wait in the shower while I get a towel, not wanting to risk her slipping while her feet are wet. I dry her off, starting with her face and ending with her hair, and after I fold her into one of my robes, I catch her looking at me with eyes now slightly clearer than before.
Hope is a corrosive pest, but I still allow it to eat its way inside my chest.
“I’d like you to drink more water now,” I tell her, and she breathes in and nods. It’s the clearest communication I’ve gotten from her yet. “Will you go into the kitchen and do that for me?”
She hesitates, but she goes eventually. I peel off my wet underwear, towel off, and then pull on sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt.
When I pad barefoot into the kitchen, she’s holding the now-empty glass of water.
“Very good,” I praise, and then I have her sit on the counter while I make a very quick meal for her. Toast with butter, apricot jam, and sea salt and then some apple slices with peanut butter.
I watch her eat slowly and then more quickly as her body remembers how it’s done, until she’s licking jam and sea salt off her fingertips. I catch her hand just as she reaches her ring finger and lick it myself, curling my tongue around the pad of her finger and then pulling it between my lips.
I pull back, our gazes meeting, and there is no question what either of us are thinking of right now.
The freezing rain has finally come amidst all this, and the sky has gone dark.
“An early bedtime, I think,” I say, and while it’s a little delayed, surprise tugs at her mouth.
“We’re not going to the hall tonight?” she asks, and the hope in her voice breaks my heart.
“I think we’ve earned a night off.”
“And you’ll…you’ll stay here tonight? So I don’t have to sleep alone?”
I think of the rumples on my side of the bed. Of the nightmares she might have been suffering through alone. My throat aches; I have to clear it before I speak. “Yes, Isolde. I’ll stay. Let me clean up here, and then we can get ready for bed.”
She chews on her lip and then slides off the counter and goes to get ready for bed under her own steam. After I finish with the dishes, I follow, brushing my teeth with a spare toothbrush and then finding an unfamiliar charging cable to plug in my phone.
Two weeks ago, I lived here, and now it feels like a hotel.
It’s unpleasant.
Isolde is already in bed, on her side, and when I slide under the covers, she stays where she’s at, even though I can feel the loneliness rolling off her like fog on ice.
“What’s your safeword?” I ask her.
“Hyssop,” she answers, confused.
“Great.” Without any other discussion, I grab her and pull her over to my side of the bed, manhandling her until she’s tucked against me and half draped over my chest.
And then…then I can’t stop petting her. Stroking her. Shaping my palms against the curves of her shoulder or the subtle muscles of her back.
Fuck, I’ve missed this. Just this. Touching her. Holding her. It’s how priests and monks and other holy people must feel when they’re allowed to handle their reliquaries, all those beautifully wrought vessels made to carry sparks of God. I could pray right now, this very minute, that’s how good it feels to have her in my arms.
“Why were you in the garden?” I ask, staring up at the ceiling. There’s no water in the rooftop pool right now, so the ceiling is a glass canopy of darkness, limned in blue at the edges. At the windows, winter presses in with biting rain and the occasional spit of sleet. Below us, the club will be in the full thrum of evening, with music and guests and some suspension experts on the stage.
Isolde takes a minute to answer. She’s been silent all this time, but she’s warm and fed, and she’s been tracing the ink on my arm. The soft exhales on my chest have been steady and not labored.
