Just Fall by Nina Sadowsky Page B

her mouth on his neck, on his belly, on his cock. How free she was with her body and with his.
    Now they stood facing each other. A pause. An assessment. How far had they gone? How far were they going? She was naked; he still wore his button-down shirt. She slid it off his shoulders so they were both completely bare.
    He laced his fingers through hers. Raised her hands above her head. Backed her against the wall, pinning her there, kissing her, hungry. Overpowering her, on the edge of domination, the brink of violence. He pulled away, teasing her, reassuring himself. She linked her arms around his neck. He wanted to look into her eyes, he was afraid to, he had to, he did.

    She met his gaze evenly, openly. Fearlessly.
    He saw intelligence and thoughtfulness, wit and spark, frank confidence and also vulnerability. The unasked but potent question: If I let you in, will you hurt me?
    It was too much for Rob. He dived to kiss her again, then turned her to face the wall. He entered her from behind, rough. She softly bit his thumb. She boldly reached between her own legs to rub her clit as he thrust into her. Their rhythm increased. And then he was grabbing her hair when he came silently. The weeping sound, he realized, was Ellie, coming right along with him. It was sacred. It was profane. It was dirty and dangerous, wondrous and exalted.
    Afterward, she took his hand and led him to her bedroom, gestured at the adjacent bathroom as if to say, “it’s right there if you need it,” and then took him into her bed. She fell asleep almost immediately. He lay there next to her, thinking how improbable and impossible this was, thinking that he had always believed that people are attracted to each other because they recognize each other’s pain, and what did that mean about her? Because his pain was deep and wide, his past dark and ugly, and all of it tucked into a secret compartment that was rarely, if ever, opened.
    So what was in her secret compartment that made her feel like home to him?
    He looked at her delicate neck, crooked on a soft down pillow. So exposed. So fragile. He caressed it with his strong fingers. His large hand circled her throat. He could snap her bones. That would solve the problem, just like that. It wouldn’t be the first time. He snatched his hand away, unnerved by the black smoke drifting virulently through his brain. He was a monster.
    He contemplated stealing back into the kitchen, gathering his clothes, and easing away into the night. He would be quiet; she wouldn’t even know he was gone until she woke.
    Then he reached a tentative hand back toward her and cradled her skull gently, her silken hair and the smooth skin of her forehead, willing himself to be tender, to be loving, to be kind. She made him want to feel these things. They were desires alien to him, drawn from some murky, deep place, terrifying, thrilling. He watched the shallow rise and fall of her breasts, the ripple of her eyes beneath their almost translucent lids, the blue vein that pulsed next to her seashell of an ear. He should walk away. He knew this. He also knew that he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He must. He stayed.

It is a glorious day in Toronto, but as day edges into evening, the blue skies darken to gray, and an ominous bank of clouds rolls toward the city. The man, early fifties, head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, square jaw, square body, says good night to his co-workers on the Toronto Islands ferryboat for which he serves on the crew. He hunches his shoulders against the rising wind as he strides to his old Ford pickup in the dock’s parking lot.
    As he drives home, he reflects that life isn’t too bad here in Canada. His job allows him routine and a sense of purpose while also keeping his disfigured face more or less private. He works belowdecks and doesn’t come into much contact with the tourists. Even though it has been years since his disfigurement, and he has had reconstructive surgery, his mouth still curls in a