She stilled his hands.
“I’m at the tail end of my period,” she said. “There might be some blood.”
He gazed up at her, grateful, so grateful. Her hand played in his hair.
“Don’t be afraid of it,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
She was beautiful. Passionate and compassionate. He didn’t shy away from her blood. He let himself move into it, seeing it as a life force, full of vitality and strength. It was baptismal.
Under him, Melanie was beautiful.
“Come here,” she said. Her voice a song in the dark. “Show me everything.”
His body was strong. He was young and alive. He could go all night.
“God, you’re good,” she said, gasping in his arms.
“You’re so good,” he whispered, his fingers seeking her out again, finding where she was still wide open and wet for him. Wet with desire. Wet with blood. He wasn’t afraid.
“Your body is amazing,” he whispered, a good lover again, thinking of her first and himself second.
Later, he lay drowsily against the velvet skin of her back. Her perfume wafted rich and golden into his nose and throat. Not a sugar scent but spice. Old world and exotic. He breathed her in and murmured, “I never thought it would be this way again.”
She kissed his fingers, twined with hers. “Baby, I often find as soon as you say ‘never,’ life throws ‘always’ at you.”
He ran his smiling mouth along her head. “I never want to make love with you again,” he whispered.
“Smartass.” She turned in his arms, giggling and wicked. “I’m gonna need an extra fly swatter under the bed to keep you in line…”
While You’re Down There
They dated two years. Then they found a beautiful apartment in the historic district—the sunny half of an old Victorian home with a back porch and a small yard—and moved in together.
It wasn’t quite seamless. After the best-behavior novelty of moving in together wore off, they settled back into their ways and found they were an imperfect couple. Melanie was dramatic when it wasn’t necessary—making mere inconveniences into dire issues. Her energy levels were unwavering, especially on Sunday mornings when Erik wanted to sleep. And her inquisitive curiosity, so charming in the beginning of the relationship, could quickly turn to pestering.
Not that he was such a prize: he had his anxious episodes, his dark, seasonal moods—especially in November and April. The intensely painful and private moments from his past were only discussed in general terms. He gave her what he could but she wanted all of him in detail. He knew it frustrated her that he had dehydrated parts of his heart so thoroughly, no amount of drenching love and affection could revive them. It made for misunderstandings and a lot of bruised feelings.
Domestically they did all right—they squabbled about money and bickered over chores. Yet despite the clashes over stupid little things, they lived well together. He grounded her. She gave him a much-needed jolt. She marveled at how he could fix anything. He loved the clever, creative ways she made their home beautiful. They got an upright piano. And a dog—a mixed mutt they named Harry. Naturally, Melanie called him Baby.
Most nights, Erik slept well, curled on Melanie’s back, their hands twined between her breasts. Harry snored in the corner and all was right with the world. But some nights Erik lay awake, not anxious, but feeling he was acting a part in some existential play.
What am I doing?
Who am I?
And he’d look at Melanie sleeping in his arms. Who are you?