She narrows her eyes. “I’m resourceful.”
Oh, Ana. I don’t doubt it. “That you are,” I whisper, and releasing her hand, I fold her into my arms. Her hands move over my back and she returns my embrace. I plant my nose in her hair, inhaling her soothing scent. “Am I forgiven?” I ask, quietly.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I respond.
“Ditto.”
We stand at the bow, the French Riviera passing us by, and we just…are.
For a moment, it’s the best feeling in the world.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Yes. Famished. All the, um, activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for dinner.”
“You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it’s our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress-down Tuesday on the Côte d’Azur. Anyway, I thought we’d eat on deck.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
I reach under her chin and raise her lips to mine and kiss her. Slowly. Gently.
Forgive me, Ana.
She smiles and together we walk hand in hand back to where our dinner awaits.
“Why do you always braid my hair?” Ana asks as I’m about to tuck into my crème brûlée.
I frown, because the answer’s obvious. “I don’t want your hair catching in anything.” I’ve always done it. Hair and toys don’t mix. “Habit, I think, I add. And from nowhere a vision of a young woman singing an eighties pop song as she brushes out her long dark hair comes to mind. She turns and smiles at me, the dust motes circling in the air around her.
Hey, Maggot. Do you want to brush my hair?
And I’m back in a godforsaken slum in Detroit, a lifetime ago. Ana caresses my chin and runs a finger across my lips, bringing me back to the Fair Lady.
Why is the crack whore haunting me now?
“It doesn’t matter,” Ana whispers. “I don’t need to know. I was just curious.” She smiles and leans forward to kiss the corner of my lips. “I love you,” she whispers. “I’ll always love you, Christian.”
“And I you.” I’m thankful that she’s here to drag me back from the dark abyss of my early childhood.
“In spite of my disobedience?” She smirks, immediately lightening the mood.
I chuckle, feeling better. “Because of your disobedience, Anastasia.”
She bashes the caramelized sugar of her dessert with her spoon and scoops up a mouthful, and all thoughts of the crack whore fade.
Once Rebecca has cleared our plates, I offer Ana more rosé. She looks past me to check we’re alone, then leans toward me with a conspiratorial air. “What’s with the no-going-to-the-bathroom thing?” she asks.
Always curious. “You really want to know?”
“Do I?”
I smile. “The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana.”
“Oh. I see.” A sweet blush colors her cheeks, and I know she’s embarrassed.
Don’t be, baby.
“Yes. Well…” She takes a swift gulp of wine.
“What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?” I ask, to move us on to a more comfortable topic. She raises her right shoulder in a shrug, a suggestive shrug, I think.
Again, Ana?
And I know I could make up for my transgression in bed. But I want more. “I know what I want to do.” I pick up my glass of wine and stand, holding out my hand to her. “Come.”
We move to the main salon and I guide her to the dresser, where my iPod is plugged into an impressive speaker. I select a song, something sweet and romantic for my girl. “Dance with me,” I ask, and sweep her into my arms.
“If you insist.”
“I insist, Mrs. Grey.”
Michael Bublé is singing the Lou Rawls classic “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine.”
We start to move, Ana following my lead. I dip her low and she giggles. I right her, then spin her around beneath my arm. She laughs. “You dance so well.” Her voice is a little husky. “It’s like I can dance.”
I love dancing with you, baby.
Elena flits, unwelcome, into my mind, and while I’m grateful to her for teaching me to dance, I’m not happy that she’s in my head.
Don’t go there, Grey.
She’s history.
Let’s just enjoy this.
I dip Ana again, then kiss her when she’s upright once more.
“I’d miss your love,” she whispers, echoing the lyrics.
“I’d more than miss your love,” I respond, and sing the next few lines softly in her ear. The song fades and we stop moving, and just gaze at each other.
I watch as her pupils grow larger and darker.
It’s magic. Our special alchemy bubbling between us.
“Come to bed with me,” I beg her.
Her coy smile brightens her face, and she places her hand on my heart. Beneath my chest, it starts hammering with my love for her—my wife—a beautiful woman who knows how to forgive me.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Mommy is pretty today. She laughs as she sits on her bed. It is sunny and lots of little dots float in the air around her like she’s a princess. Hey, Maggot, brush my hair. I pull the brush through her long hair. It is hard for me because of tangles. But Mommy likes it. She sings. What’s love got to do, got to do with it. She smiles her special smile. It is her smile for me. Only me. She shakes her hair so it is silky down her back. I stroke it. It smells of clean. She splits it into three snakes. And then she ties them together to make one bumpy snake. There, it’s out of the way, Maggot. She picks up her hairbrush. And she brushes my hair. No! Mommy. It hurts. Too many tangles. Don’t fight, Maggot. No! Mommy. I try to make her stop. There is a loud noise. A crash. He’s back. No! Where the fuck are you, bitch? Got a friend here. A friend with dough. Mommy stands and takes my hand and pushes me into her closet. I sit on her shoes. I am quiet. Like a mouse. I cover my ears and close my eyes. If I am small he won’t see me. The clothes smell of Mommy. I like the smell. I like being here. Away from him. He is shouting. Where is the little fucking runt? He has my hair and he pulls me out of the closet. He waves the hairbrush at Mommy. Don’t want this little prick spoiling the party. He slaps Mommy hard on her face with her hairbrush. Put your fucking hooker heels on and make it good for my friend, then you get your fix, bitch. Mommy looks at me and she has tears. Don’t cry, Mommy. Another man comes into the room. A big man with dirty coveralls. Blue coveralls. The big man smiles at Mommy. I am pulled into the other room. He pushes me onto the floor and I hurt my knees. He waves the hairbrush at me. Now, what am I going to do with you, you piece of shit? He smells bad. He smells of beer and he is smoking a cigarette.