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She came bearing apples. Bright, green, crisp. Grown firm and tart under the watchful gaze of the sun. It had been a wild, last-minute decision to bring him something other than herself. To give him a chance to create something. With her. A chance to create something together. It would not last but for now, it could be enough. And besides, her mother always said a way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She wanted his heart. It didn't matter how she got it. When she carefully unlocked his backdoor, she jumped and almost dropped the plastic bag. Oh, he was right there in the doorway. He must have been waiting right behind the door. Suddenly breathing became harder than loving and being loved in return. "Good morning." His eyebrows lifted. "Good morning to you too. What's that rustling?" "I brought some things." "What things?" "I thought you could help me make my mother's apple pie." His voice wondering, breathless with surprise. "Why?" Oh, he could be so wispy and fragile sometimes. Does no one acknowledge you anymore? Does anyone remember you are here? Or are you just a pale wraith slipping into corners like I slipped you into the darkest corner of my mind? For so long. I sacrificed the knowledge of your existence so I could live myself. Live in peace. Just another lie. I have never been at peace. "Because I want you to." Because I want you to fill every part of me. Because I want all my moments to be filled with you. He smiled and she was blinded by the light. The summer sun must be envious of this summer son. Cruel, jealous sun to keep him in its eclipse. She brushed past him to set her bag on the kitchen counter. The almost contact was like the first rumbling sigh of thunder. He followed the sound of her movements. I would know the sound of your footsteps anywhere. He leaned against the counter, the pose so insolently familiar, she was tempted to give him a hard kick to the shins. Just for old time's sake. The smirk was in full glory today. "Since when do you cook, Summers?" "Shut up, Will. I'm a terrific cook." He snorted with repressed laughter, his delicate, bony shoulders shaking. "Summers, the food you cook only comes in two flavors, charred and scorched." Fine Summers, I'll try the stupid cake you made. Oh God, have mercy! Are you trying to kill me? This is disgusting! Quick, call the CIA. If we threaten to feed the Commies this, they'll be ratting each other out left and right. She pinched his ear. Hard. "Christ, woman! Why must you always resort to violence?" She stuck her tongue out at him, for good measure. Okay, so it was really juvenile. But he made her so crazy sometimes. Crazy with frustration. Crazy with desire. "Because it's fun. And I'm sticking my tongue out at you, by the way." "Oh, that's ladylike." "Hush up, you. And help me here." She turned on the faucet and placed a smooth, round apple in his hand. If only he could see it. Perfect and unblemished, beautiful in its contained green wholeness. He held it up to his face and smelled it, his eyes closed in bliss. Oh, she would never stop falling. "I can almost taste it on my tongue." "How does it taste?" "Tart but sweet. Firm and cool and delicate." "And you say you're not a poet?" "Apparently, fruit inspires me." You inspire me. You, with your long, pale fingers and soft, steady hands. "Good. Now get inspired to wash them." He huffed. "Bossy, bossy." She smiled as he started scrubbing the apple under the water. Those hands surprisingly sure and deft. They continued that way in silence. Her handing him an apple. Him washing it and handing it back to her so she could peel, cut, and core it. "Let's make two." "Why?" "Will...last night...last night, Angel called me and invited me to dinner today." He stiffened almost imperceptibly. She saw it though. Years of watching and memorizing the angles and planes of his body until it became as familiar to her as her own. "I see. And you're going." "Yes." "What for?" To do my penance. Because I owe them that much. "Catch up on old times, I guess." "Oh." He handed her the last apple, silently. "Are you angry with me?" "No. You should go. So, what's the other pie for?" She breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes he was so difficult to read. Especially now. His eyes placid and blank as deep water. "For you. Of course." "I haven't had pie in years." "Well, it's time again then." It was time again for a lot of things. She rooted through the plastic bag, laying out all the things she would need. Rolling pin, flour, sugar, butter, a waxed sheet of paper to keep the counter clean. His head was cocked in her direction. Listening. Always listening. His face paled slightly. "We'll have to clean up carefully after we're done. If she notices anything out of place, she'll know. She'll put a stop to this." "Why?" "She's never liked you. I'm sorry but she hasn't." "I know. But you're free to do what you want." He laughed bitterly, the sound cutting her to the bone. "No, I'm not. She's all I have left in this world." What about me? You have me. She bit her tongue. He was starting to look distraught. She would not push right now. "It's okay. She'll never know I was here." She started making the dough. Just like her mother's recipe. She had memorized it, like she had memorized him. Her last few links to the past. She turned to him. "Here give me your hands." His hands found her outstretched ones. "Stand in front of me." They stood at the counter, back to front as she guided his hands to knead the dough. Oh, it was so good, so good to feel their hands intertwined, working the dough, rolling it flat with the pin. She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent. Clean and soapy and fresh as a newly starched white sheet. In her mind she saw white bedsheets hung up to dry. Saw her six-year-old self in pigtails, chasing him through the voluminous billows. Come on you slowpoke girl! Look at me! I'm flying through the clouds. Come on. Fly with me. Oh, yes. They were flying. Her hands over his, helping him form the crusts and cover them with a layer of dough. Helping him carve hearts in what was left over, placing them over the pie tops. Helping him make tiny notches along the edges with the blunt end of the knife. A notch for every month they spent apart. A notch for every year she hoped they would have together. A quick, tortured glance at the clock told her it was already four-thirty. She felt the walls closing in again. How hard it was to leave him. How sweet it would be to take him next door with her and tuck him between her sheets, tuck him in her arms. She murmured in his ear, loathe to shatter this enchantment. "It's four-thirty." "Oh." "I'll wrap these up and bake them at home. I'll bring you yours tomorrow, alright?" He sighed so, so softly it was a downy feather against her skin. "I can't wait." She slowly let go of his hands, their connection still stretched like a thin golden chain between them. She cleaned up everything quickly as he leaned against the counter, eyes calm but face still hazy with the spell of skin against skin. After she packed up her things again and the pies, she moved towards the door. Shuffling backwards so she could drink in the sight of him for a while longer. "Well, until tomorrow then." "Until tomorrow." He echoed. At the door she halted, her back against the cool wood. He was still leaning against the counter, staring into empty space. Listening for the sound of her footsteps. Everything inside her wrenched. Before she knew it, she had set her bag down. Flew to him in two shaky strides, her hand reaching up to cup his angular cheek. Lips straining to kiss it. Before she knew it, he turned his head and met her lips with his own. OH. It was nothing like she dreamed. It was nothing that existed on earth. Awkward, frantic, melting, clashing, blending. Lips and tongues and teeth and gasps. How could she have imagined he would kiss any other way but this? Breathless. Hungry. Drowning. When they parted trembling, she tasted blood on her lips. Hers? His? It didn't matter. It was one and the same. "I have to go. Or it will be too late." He nodded, grasping onto the counter with one hand. "Tomorrow." "Yes. Yes. Tomorrow." And she grabbed her bag and ran out, afraid that if she looked back at him one more time, she would never be able to go. When she was back in her mother's house, she stretched out her arms and careened through every room. Flying like they had once flown through the white sheets. I once read this story about three maidens that guarded a tree. This tree was special. It had golden apples that could give a man anything he wanted. Everything he wanted. You have given me the golden apple. You taste like anything and everything I have ever wanted. You undo me. Undo me again. Forever. |