The One In My Heart

Needless to say, sex was raunchy and all-consuming. Afterward we showered together, had our dinner, and moved to the masturbation couch.

I pulled out my laptop. I’d texted earlier in the day that I might stay only a short time, because I needed to finish drafting the next paper. He in turn had suggested that I bring work along instead—and I hadn’t needed much persuasion.

He made the sign of the cross—which made me laugh—before sitting down at the other end of the masturbation couch. Outside wind howled; rain splattered against the windows. But under the big throw blanket Bennett had spread, we were as snug as two kittens in a basket.

I lost myself in my work. Once I looked up to see my lover typing away on his own laptop. Another time he had a thick volume of medical reference on his lap. But when I was done for the evening, he was reading The Fellowship of the Ring.

Not just any old copy—we had at least a dozen different editions—but Zelda’s precious, inscribed to her by none other than Professor Tolkien himself. The kind of loan one would make only to a beloved future son-in-law.

“How come you never read it in high school?” I asked.

“I was more into techno-thrillers, when I wasn’t busy trying to decide if I wanted to be the next Thoreau.” Bennett peered at me over the top of the book. “When did you get started on them?”

“Zelda read them to me when I was little, starting with The Hobbit. Instead of playing dolls, we used to play Middle-earth—she was Frodo and I her faithful Sam. And we’d slog our way up Mount Doom to destroy the ring.”

He set the book aside, went to the kitchen, and came back with a handful of tangerines. “She told me you surprised her with a trip to New Zealand for the premiere of The Return of the King.”

“It was fun—Times Square on New Year’s Eve has nothing on that crowd.”

He tossed me a tangerine. “So how come you don’t love The Lord of the Rings as much as she does?”

No one had ever made such an observation, but it was true: Had I been as devoted a fangirl as Zelda, I’d have been the one urging the book on Bennett, not her.

“It’s not that I don’t love it. I probably have a better grasp of the history of Middle-earth than she does. The map that came with”—I gestured toward the book with the tangerine I was peeling—”I can draw it from memory with ninety-seven percent accuracy and label all the place names in Elvish, Dwarvish, and Westron.”

“I don’t know why, but that’s turning me on.”

This made me giggle. He popped a tangerine segment into his mouth. I wondered how it would feel to kiss him and taste all that citrusy coolness.

“You were saying?” he reminded me.

“Right.” I had to think for a moment to remember what we were talking about. “So it’s not the world Tolkien created that I don’t love, but the story, I guess. Or maybe the themes. There is such a pervasive sense of loss in his writing—it’s all about the end of an age, about those who are leaving and not coming back. At one point Galadriel, the Elvish queen, says to Sam, ‘For our spring and our summer are gone by, and they will never be seen on earth again save in memory.’”

Bennett gazed at me thoughtfully. My cheeks warmed. “Sorry. Is that too much geekery?”

“No, keep going.”

“There’s not much else. Well, not much else without spoiling the whole thing.”

“Come on. The books are sixty years old, and I’ve seen enough Internet memes to know that one does not simply walk into Mordor.”

I chortled. “I’ll tell you a secret: Actually one does simply walk into Mordor. But carrying the burden of the ring changes Frodo. It damages him so much that he can’t stay in Middle-earth anymore. He has to sail away with the last of the High Elves, leaving behind Sam and everything he’s ever known, because he can no longer bear the pain.”

And Sam, for all his devotion, could not lessen Frodo’s torment or heal his wound. Could only stand by and watch as Frodo departed over the vast seas.

Without warning, tears stung the back of my eyes. Hastily I looked up, and then down at my half-peeled tangerine. “I guess you can say I have mixed feelings.”

Bennett scooted closer to me, took the tangerine from my hand, and finished peeling it. He divided the segments inside, took half, and gave the other half to me. We ate silently. I watched the storm outside—and his reflection in the window, which watched me.

I felt as transparent as my own reflection. I should have become used to the sensation by now, since we never spent any significant amount of time together without my arriving at this state. But if anything, with repetition the naked vulnerability became more difficult to take, not less.

When we were finished with the tangerine, he said, “Zelda told me you liked arcade games.”

I was so grateful for the change of subject, I’d have gone down on him that instant. “Yeah, but I haven’t been to an arcade in years.”