the house, clattering the loose siding, dragging laden branches across the drifts on the roof, thumps and screeches and odd, muffled snaps, the cabin filled again with living air, dry and sharp and just very,
very
cold.
Upstairs there was a rustling and a private sigh. Then the wind, again, building.
“Eric.”
“I woke you,” he said.
She said, “I haven’t actually slept.”
“I did. Some anyway. Maybe a couple of hours.”
“Uh, no. More like a couple of fifteen minutes. You snore. Are you frozen?”
“I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”
“It’s warm up here. It’s fine up here. You’d better come up, mister. I’m in my sleeping bag. Bring your blanket. But don’t get any fucking ideas.”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t had an idea in months.”
“You had an idea earlier.”
The ladder came down, seemingly on its own. Danielle struck a match, bright as sun. Then the lamplight. He gave her a moment to get back in under her covers, climbed the ladder dragging his bedding behind him like Linus. Simple truth: heat rises. Danielle in her Rasta cap helped arrange his blanket, carefully folding it to open away from her. Something startling in the shapes her clavicles made, not that he was looking. She’d startled him all day with her strange, retractable beauty, like a cat’s claws.
“There,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said.
“But take off your shirt.”
“Better not.”
“Just take it off.”
He unbuttoned it, pulled it off. Good idea, preserve some small corner of freshness for morning.
“Your shoulder,” she said.
It was bruised, he could see, and pretty badly. He shrugged.
She said, “You really did try to smash down that door.”
“At the vet’s, yes. It was armored in some way. I hurt my foot, too.”
“It’s all the dog drugs they have in there.”
“Heartworm.”
“And take off your pants.”
He did, and then his boxers, too (a kind of bravado), and slipped quickly into bed as she looked away. She blew out the light. He settled in with his back to her and they lay a long time like that, close enough to feel the heat between them.
“Who
sent
you?” Danielle whispered seriously, suddenly.
“Oprah,” Eric whispered back.
“Would you please,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Eric said.
And they were silent. At length, she whispered, “I was smart to go for groceries. Somewhere in me I just knew.” She turned on her side behind him, put her arm over him, placed a hand on his chest. “I’m going to bite you.”
“Well,” he said.
“If you come here,” she murmured, pulling him closer.
“Really,” he said. “Better not.”
“We saved each other,” she said, oddly fervent, bubbling like a pot in a way he could
feel,
and not just through her hand. Heart-to-heart, as his mother used to say, soul-to-soul, too mystical for his taste.
They listened to the storm, the muffled hits of who knew what on the roof.
She kissed his hurt shoulder.
“I don’t know,” he said, aroused.
“But what?” she whispered, biting him, ten little bites across his bruises, rising up behind him and over him to bite his chest. She kissed his neck, stroked his belly, kissed his ear.
“No,” he said.
“Just what I was thinking,” she said. “No way.”
“We will be fine friends,” he said.
“You sound like Winnie the fucking Pooh,” she said gently, resting her cheek on his shoulder.
“Black widow,” he said.
“That’s better.” She bit him once more, maybe a little hard, patted his chest, reached suddenly to grab his erection, which was straining, moment of no return, moment that best intentions fled. “Mm,” she said.
“No,” he said. He had a responsibility.
“Just checking,” she said, giving a hard squeeze. Then she let go, patted his belly, stroked his chest, kissed that shoulder once more. “You’re nice,” she said. “And you are very strong.”
“Not really,” he said.
She bit him hard. But she was done, whatever her project was. She
very
cold.
Upstairs there was a rustling and a private sigh. Then the wind, again, building.
“Eric.”
“I woke you,” he said.
She said, “I haven’t actually slept.”
“I did. Some anyway. Maybe a couple of hours.”
“Uh, no. More like a couple of fifteen minutes. You snore. Are you frozen?”
“I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”
“It’s warm up here. It’s fine up here. You’d better come up, mister. I’m in my sleeping bag. Bring your blanket. But don’t get any fucking ideas.”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t had an idea in months.”
“You had an idea earlier.”
The ladder came down, seemingly on its own. Danielle struck a match, bright as sun. Then the lamplight. He gave her a moment to get back in under her covers, climbed the ladder dragging his bedding behind him like Linus. Simple truth: heat rises. Danielle in her Rasta cap helped arrange his blanket, carefully folding it to open away from her. Something startling in the shapes her clavicles made, not that he was looking. She’d startled him all day with her strange, retractable beauty, like a cat’s claws.
“There,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said.
“But take off your shirt.”
“Better not.”
“Just take it off.”
He unbuttoned it, pulled it off. Good idea, preserve some small corner of freshness for morning.
“Your shoulder,” she said.
It was bruised, he could see, and pretty badly. He shrugged.
She said, “You really did try to smash down that door.”
“At the vet’s, yes. It was armored in some way. I hurt my foot, too.”
“It’s all the dog drugs they have in there.”
“Heartworm.”
“And take off your pants.”
He did, and then his boxers, too (a kind of bravado), and slipped quickly into bed as she looked away. She blew out the light. He settled in with his back to her and they lay a long time like that, close enough to feel the heat between them.
“Who
sent
you?” Danielle whispered seriously, suddenly.
“Oprah,” Eric whispered back.
“Would you please,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Eric said.
And they were silent. At length, she whispered, “I was smart to go for groceries. Somewhere in me I just knew.” She turned on her side behind him, put her arm over him, placed a hand on his chest. “I’m going to bite you.”
“Well,” he said.
“If you come here,” she murmured, pulling him closer.
“Really,” he said. “Better not.”
“We saved each other,” she said, oddly fervent, bubbling like a pot in a way he could
feel,
and not just through her hand. Heart-to-heart, as his mother used to say, soul-to-soul, too mystical for his taste.
They listened to the storm, the muffled hits of who knew what on the roof.
She kissed his hurt shoulder.
“I don’t know,” he said, aroused.
“But what?” she whispered, biting him, ten little bites across his bruises, rising up behind him and over him to bite his chest. She kissed his neck, stroked his belly, kissed his ear.
“No,” he said.
“Just what I was thinking,” she said. “No way.”
“We will be fine friends,” he said.
“You sound like Winnie the fucking Pooh,” she said gently, resting her cheek on his shoulder.
“Black widow,” he said.
“That’s better.” She bit him once more, maybe a little hard, patted his chest, reached suddenly to grab his erection, which was straining, moment of no return, moment that best intentions fled. “Mm,” she said.
“No,” he said. He had a responsibility.
“Just checking,” she said, giving a hard squeeze. Then she let go, patted his belly, stroked his chest, kissed that shoulder once more. “You’re nice,” she said. “And you are very strong.”
“Not really,” he said.
She bit him hard. But she was done, whatever her project was. She
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