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 |  My first ever Writing.com journal. |
| views are up. not to be a comment-grubber or anything, but i am curious; who are you, anonymous readers? i know fifteen or so of you by name, i get emails from slightly fewer than that, and everyone else is a question mark. do you think you could, at your convenience, drop me a line? i'm sick. that fever i wrote for myself, it came true. burning hot coals in my head and barbed wire lining the inside of my throat. and i'm always freezing, which is not different from usual, but unfair because my options are limited: thin chenille blanket or thin chenille blanket (ineffective, mostly for show). i miss my mom. she is not particularly domestic but she does make me feel better, when my throat hurts. soup and such. i have a shitty substitute, the college food of champions (cuppy o'noodles, a great big irish disappointment), but no one will make it for me and no one will leave me alone, and i accidentally slept through class and i still don't feel better. marcus has the same bug, unsurprisingly, and it's making his asthma flare up, and we're both deathly afraid it's the flu (not this year, please), and it's making us yell at each other. i don't need that right now. thank goodness for post-midnight venteration, via email. thanks for listening, you. now all i have to do is write myself a baby. i was telling someone, probably jodi, that this happens to me, that i get invested, i love my characters, freak out when i think they're in danger. very glad she's okay. miya won't get off my bed, and she's hacking louder than i am. melony is talking so fast and so much, it's making my head spin. marcus's away message even sounds angry. i need to get out of here. i'm going to the movies, after this. irresponsible, on a homework-filled wednesday night, particularly one on which i am barely holding myself together, physically. i kind of hate everybody. except my mom, i miss her. frustrating. i wait for my turn, thinking endlessly of all the brilliant things i'm going to write, and then it is, and, crap. ********** Now it's Aaron's turn to wake up heavy and motionless, and with a hot, grainy wind attacking his face. His first thought is of jeans, denim jeans: what they must feel, parading through the assembly line on industrial hangers, waiting to be rendered fashionable through merciless abrasion. So much sand. Good thing he hasn't seen a pair of sandblasted jeans since elementary school, since that teacher who took reckless advantage of every casual friday. A memory he's had no reason to fondle in years, and now he does, for what seems like hours, waiting for the feeling to return to his gravid fingers and faraway toes. * She still feels empty, but it's warm now, and with that Bad gone, she can hear again; only one thing to hear, the hum she loves, has always loved, unchanging and unending. It's back, and she's happy. So happy. It sings to her and she can hear it always, even over the singing that's only sometimes. She wants to sing, too, she always has; the Bad scared her, but it's gone now, and now there's just the hum, and she still feels empty, but it's warm now, and she answers. * Shannon is wearing white, white halter and white wraparound, the clean bright fabric punctuated by the usual strip of precious taut midriff. Curls spill over one shoulder, hanging inches from Aaron's forehead. Their eyes meet; hers register enraptured surprise. "How are you feeling?" she asks breathlessly, sliding a hand along the contours of his chest. The hand feels like it weighs six hundred pounds, but her eyes are hale, and he doesn't ask her to move it. "Like shit," he croaks. "Like one hundred percent pure, pulp-free, all-American shit." He looks around, ignoring his stiff neck and its stabbing protests, furrows his brow. "How'd I get back down here?" She blushes, lifts a tiny arm, flexes a microscopic muscle. "You know what they say. Where there's a will," she murmurs modestly. "I wanted you down here with the water and stuff, just in case. It...it sounded awful. And you, you've looked better. I feel like I should do something; you had an--an ab--I don't know, most people need..." Her hand floats back down to his side, massages the searing flesh along his torso. Sensation floods his lower body and he's aware, suddenly, of her legs beneath his back, her knees in just the right spots, kneading the aching knots that flank his spine. He forces a smile, reaches up to tug at her hair, smiles genuinely. "I'll be fine," he promises. "I was on a mission. Now we just have to wait and see whether I got the job done." Her face changes, brightens. "We've got a surprise for you," she whispers, taking his hand. * He turns on his side, propping himself up on one elbow, and sends the other arm in a circle around her waist. She's tiny, so tiny, and now he's got a faceful of her skin; even-toned, inviting, lip-accessible. "Welcome back, you," he whispers. "Here, right here," says Shannon, pointing. He follows her gaze, explores the indicated spot with his cheek and, when she bumps against him, replies with a kiss. And then another, and another. He's missed her. Patient no longer, Shannon slides a hand around to the nape of his neck, lifts his eyeline, beams widely. "My turn," she pronounces quietly, and it's hard, very hard, to be gentle. He manages. * Afterward, they trade places. He's rubbing her belly and playing with her hair, and when she frowns, his response is immediate. "What's wrong?" he asks, not trying to conceal his anxiety; this island has seen more than its share of sickness. She covers his hands with her own and smiles. "Nothing, but I'm starving. You think maybe I could have a bird kebab?" * Now she is full, and warm, the hum is strong, and the other voice is back; simple pleasures restored; things couldn't be better. She feels them both, hears their voices; she can tell when the voices are for her, can tell when they're for each other. When they're for her, she is overwhelmed; she wants to respond in kind, to share her discoveries--thumb, elbow--to know what things mean, to live the patterns she's learning. She is comfortable, here. But she wonders. * Over the weeks, he watches her, and decides the baby is definitely growing, and that it's okay, then, that Shannon isn't. Her tracks her changes, perceives the shift in her center of gravity--that swaybacked walk, he can't help laughing, mimicking, even and especially when embarrassment stains her chest bright red. He loves her breasts, loves her hips, loves to cook for her. She's eating now, that's what matters. That, and the movements, now monitored steadfastly by both parents, and the music. He sings to his little one while Mommy sleeps, tracing patterns that he hopes she can feel, savanting his way through their budding connection. He tells her stories, new ones every night, each with a happy ending. He tells her the story of herself; "It begins on a beach," he says, and she thumps his palm, understanding. When he gets too excited, too noisy, and wakes Shannon, he doesn't panic or apologize, because putting her back to sleep is easy, very easy. Haywood hasn't had to make an appearance, yet. He thinks it would be nice if it stayed this way forever. But he knows, does he ever, that now, there are plans to be made. |
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