C Reiss - Sing

“God, you make me crazy when you talk like that.”

“There’s a blanket on the grass. I lead you to it. You lie down.”

“The night is clear. The stars are out.”

“My lips on your body trace the story of my love.”

My eyelashes fluttered on his cheek. “I try to touch you, but you won’t let me. God, you’re still in that tuxedo.”

“I took it off.”

“When?”

“When I say, Goddess.”

I sighed, going with him. He was naked. “You’re perfect. Shaped for me.”

He swallowed thickly. “I kiss your ankles. Pull your legs apart. I draw a map to your sex with my tongue. I feel overtaken. In my guts, I need to yank you, pound you with my dick, make you scream and beg. But I hold back. Kiss behind your knees. I control myself for you.”

“I want you, you’re all I can think about.”

“I’m losing steam.”

His eyes filling my visions, red rims and pale skin, soaked in exhaustion, he needed me to create this for him, for us. I took a deep breath and kissed his cheek, letting my lips linger on him. “Your lips inside my thighs. Your tongue finding its way to me. You kiss my clit. You finger my nipples. You’re touching me just enough to drive me crazy. Your mouth works between my legs. Sucking and twitching. I arch my back. I’m so close when you stop. And you know it too. You pull me to you. We kiss. I taste my pussy on you.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“I turn you around. We’re both on our knees. Your back is against me. I push you up, spread you. I put my dick in you and you push down.”

“You’re so hard. And I’m so wet. And it’s so easy isn’t it? Wasn’t it always so easy for you to put your cock in me? Like you were meant to be there.”

“I pull your head back, until you’re looking at the sky. Hold your face up. My hand is on your throat.”

“Your other hand slips between my legs. You touch where we’re joined.”

“I look at the stars with you.”

“I move with you. I’m safe under the sky. I feel you everywhere on me. I’m filled with you. I tell you I’m coming.”

“I say, ‘yes.’”

We stayed silent for a minute, deeply joined, as if he were inside me, expanding together, into each other, fully unified, merged, consciousness where our bodies should have been.

“I love you,” I whispered.

“Please stay with me.”

I didn’t answer for a long time, I just kept my face buried in his neck and listened to his breathing. At some point, I was going to have to leave and meet with Declan. If not to get the whens and wherefores, then to kick his ass for not holding up his end of the deal, but how could I?

“Your family’s going to want to see you,” I said.

“You ever want sisters?” he asked.

“Always.”

“You’re welcome.”

I laughed. He smiled. “They’re outside. I’m going to take care of some business and come back, okay?”

“Stay.”

I kissed his cheek. It felt warmer than it did before our pretend wedding night, and I lingered there.

“I’ll be back.”

“Stay.”

“I can’t. I promise—“

“Stay.”

I backed up and let his hand slip from mine.

MONICA

When I walked out, I must have been a sight. The bright lights of the hall hurt my eyes, and my hair was a rat’s nest pressed in the shape of Jonathan’s fingers.

Eileen approached. “How is he?”

I didn’t say anything. There were doctors to report facts to her, all I could say was something like, “he can barely tell me how he’s going to fuck me, because he’s dying,” and that wouldn’t be helpful, least of all me. Eileen passed me, then Sheila, then Margie and Deirdre. Leanne in Asia. Carrie far away. Theresa in some kind of trouble. Fiona, entourage-free for once, scuttled down the hall and blew past me.

Declan drew up the rear and whispered in my ear. “Fifteen minutes to a fire drill on the second floor. They don’t move brain dead patients for drills. He’ll be alone. Staff’s been arranged. Cops are a wild card. Good luck.” He winked at me with real élan, as if this was just delicious, and as much as I’d doubted Jonathan’s fear and hatred of his father, in that moment, I knew it wasn’t completely unfounded.

MONICA

I had fifteen minutes.

I felt very far away, my body a borrowed suit, my mind a blunt instrument, my soul in a room full of family, curled up next to a dying man. Fifteen minutes. This was time to kill. I couldn’t sit still. I went to the vending machines and stared at cheerful paper packets of synthetics, crisp under the unappetizing blue light. A refrigerator-sized box of cola containers, eleven buttons, all yielding the same drink, I felt like an alien standing in front of something new and unknown. People about to commit murder in movies seemed so sharp and aware in ways that were useful. They could kick and punch with lightning reflexes. This wasn’t like that at all. This was more like walking under water.

Ten minutes.

More than anything, I wanted to rest. The thought of finding a waiting room and falling asleep on a couch seemed very appealing. I’d sleep through my opportunity, and none of it would be my fault. Jonathan would die tomorrow or the next day, but I’d be okay. I’d go to work on Tuesday, and just go on like I had before. Except for never touching him again, or hearing his voice, or kneeling before him like the slave I was, all the other chunks of my life would be the same.

Ultimately, I was being selfish. I wanted him to live for my sake. Because knowing he was there soothed me. Because I didn’t truly believe I had any control over myself or my life if he wasn’t there. Because without him, things were wrong.

The wrongness was my perception. The world would be fine without him. Really. He wasn’t Mother Theresa.

Five minutes.

Are you talking yourself out of this?

Calm, yet somehow panicked, like a wheel moving so fast it appeared to be still, I went up the stairs. I knew where I had to go, physically, but mentally, I felt as if I’d painted the floor from door to corner in blood.

I pushed open the door with my fist and walked into the second floor. It was after 2am. Skeleton crew. No visitors. I made eye contact with the cop reading the paper, because any less would make me out to be suspicious before I did this thing. And this thing needed doing.

Three minutes.

I went to the bathroom. The mirrors were streaked with cheap cleaning fluid, and my face looked poorly-wiped, tired, too fucking thin by a lot. I didn’t look strong enough to do this. I looked like a wax doll.

One minute.

No. I couldn’t do it. I was going to have to just deal with life without him and everything we could have been to each other. I was going to have to let him die. I couldn’t rescue him. I wasn’t strong enough, and it wasn’t the consequences that would break me, but the act itself. I didn’t have the spine for brutality. I was a child in over her head. A spineless coward, and an exhausted, hungry, stupid child.

A light flashed, and a squeal cut the air.

I was going to stay in the bathroom and watch myself fail in the mirror, and when they came to evacuate me for the drill, I’d run out with the crowd in a nice, orderly, single file line.

I wasn’t going to do it.

MONICA

People in movies, apparently, manage to obtain reflexes in moments of stress, and the rest of us dream that this will happen to us; that when we’re at the edge of the cliff we can jump to safety, or to rescue, magically stronger and faster then we’d been an hour earlier. We’re entertained by the idea that we could be that capable when it’s necessary, and our daily incompetence is simply that we’re not challenged enough.

That never happens, of course, because you know, life doesn’t happen on the edges of cliffs. It happens in bathrooms and hallways. It happens when a fire alarm goes off and all the avoidance slips away like a silk nightgown. For me, it happened by the second whoop of the siren, when everything clicked together.

Go time.

This was my purpose. Every choice I’d made had led me here. If I denied it, I’d be the walking dead.

Humanity scurrying, shouting, parts of a machine spinning and thrusting, patients wheeled down the hall, a nurse demanding I go left, me doing it, then flipping back as soon as she turned away. A security guard shouted to me. I gave him the thumbs up and continued, grabbed some coat slung over a chair as if I’d turned to retrieve my things, and again, I turned another corner when his attention shifted.

There would be cameras, and they’d see me. I didn’t waste my time trying to dodge them. I was going to get caught and I was going to take my lumps. Shame. Prison. A destroyed career.

Patalano’s hallway was clear. Declan must have taken care of this. A fire drill was a diversion so obvious, the police would have planned for it and even the stupidest mobster would have dismissed it, yet, they were gone.

I walked into his room.

It was dark, and he was alone, lying on his back. Everything was exactly what I expected, like I was walking into a familiar place. The whoosh and hum of the machines was drowned out by the siren. They were bigger than the ones in Jonathan’s room, with more dials and gauges. Patalano’s face was hidden by tubes going down his throat, and a bandage on his head. His neck was kept stable by a plastic apparatus, and the eyes taped shut.