A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [52]
She softened, head lowered, and shied. “I ... of course. I’m sorry.”
“No.” I took her in my arms, and she was warm. As warm as when we made love, our body heat driving moisture to our skin. “No, it’s my fault, I’m overreacting. I’m sorry.”
She nestled into my chest and embraced me, and I looked over her into the bathroom. The tub squatted directly behind us, the toilet to its right, the pedestal sink nearest the door. The cabinet over the sink was ajar and the mirrored door reflected part of our embrace. My elbow around her shoulder, her hair wet from the bath cascading behind her.
And what little of her flesh showed in the mirror was pale gray-blue.
I jerked my gaze to her, and saw her tanned, vibrant, alive; there was nothing off about her. She smelled of coastal flowers in a gentle ocean breeze laced with sea mist. I shut my eyes.
I didn’t want to see. I steered us away from the mirror toward the bedroom.
“I got you something to eat. It’s ... well, it’s not as fresh as before.”
She kissed me full and deep, her fingers wrapping in my hair as she pulled me in. It would be more screaming, grunting, sweating, sopping hours before I slept again, but when I did, it was deep and sound.
When the alarm went off I jumped out of my skin. I rise before the sun most of the year though I don’t know why. I rose in darkness, and expected she’d be gone.
Instead she sat up on the bed, arms folded across the top of the bookshelf headboard, staring out the window. The moonlight touched her face and it reflected luminescence. Her eyes glowed like a cat’s in a flashlight beam. I wondered again how they did.
“Are you all right?” My voice was still asleep, came out a croak.
“The moon is fading.”
I followed her gaze through the plantation shutters. The moon shaded toward three-quarters full.
“Time is fleeing,” she muttered.
I watched her glowing eyes, at once frightened and drawn by them. The horizon lightened as the moon sank. She didn’t move.
“I have to go,” I said at length.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to work.”
“Why?”
I blinked. “I ... need an income.”
She tipped her head and sighed. “Are you eager to leave me because we quarreled?”
I reached for her and fought the repulsion from her clammy and cold skin beneath my hand. “NO! No, of course not! I don’t want to leave you. I have to.”
She nodded.
“Will you ... be here when I get back?”
“I don’t know.”
Her words stung. “Why?”
“I’m tired. I need to rest. I may go to the cove later. It’s not far, is it?”
“You don’t remember the walk?”
She nodded. “It’s not far, is it?”
“No,” I said, confused. “Shall I look for you there? When I come home?”
“When you come home,” she repeated, and her melodious voice played a minor key, a sad note. I fixed my eyes at her.
“Is everything all right?”
“When you come home,” she said again. “When will you come home?”
“As soon as I can.”
“You will return, won’t you?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. But you will?”
“Yes,” I assured, and kissed her clammy shoulder. The coldness bit my lips, startled me. Her fingertips traced my cheek. Warm.
“All right.” She turned to stare at the moon. “The sun is coming.”
“Yes.”
“I’m so tired. I want to rest now. May I?”
“Of course, all you’d like. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
I leaned toward her, and she snaked her arm around my neck, pulled me in a long, warm kiss, probed my mouth with her tongue, drew my senses from me and cast them away. At length she laid back on the pillow, and pulled a sheet over her naked beauty.
“When you come home,” she murmured, and floated into slumber.
I left, and spent the day in a blur. I can’t recall what I did or where I was, or why I did anything except be with her, make love to her, talk with her, watch her dance. When the day began fading to dusk I returned to the bungalow and she was not there. Despite the stabbing disappointed pang in my chest, I knew she wouldn’t be.
The days reeled like that. I don’t remember how the daylight hours passed, what I did, even where I went. I only knew I was away from her