We forget about the food. Right now, cheeseburgers and chili cheese fries topped with jalapenos are the last things on my mind. Instead, we fall into bed, tearing our clothes off as we do, choosing to satisfy our hunger in another way. The sex is amazing, as sex always is with Ford. I put everything I have into it, every single bit of my body and soul, because I know it’s all about to come to an end. The control ping pongs back and forth between us, an equal rhythm of give and take. We’re rough and soft, gentle then hard, and when it’s my turn at the helm, I straddle him, hold him down, teasing with my hips, keeping his orgasm just out of reach and nearly driving him mad.
Because no matter what happens, this is my last week with Ford. I need this, this moment, to last as long as possible.
And I need to leave my mark on him.
Peering down between sheets of my hair, I study his face, memorize his features, etch them into my brain, my very heart.
I need.
His eyes, already so dark, blacken even more with desire, and feral urges rise to the surface, take over completely, turning his face into a mixed match of ecstasy and pain.
I need.
His fingers press into my hips, and my nails dig into his chest, and we’re desperate, both desperate as we cling to each other, melt into each other.
I need.
We’re nothing but wicked lust now, tortured souls aching for relief, and our movements become frantic, demanding, and the rocking of the bed helps to quicken our pace.
I need.
When I finally let him go, it’s only because I can’t hold back any longer, and we come together, explode together, expanding to infinity before contracting again, falling back down, back to earth…back into a reality I can never have.
But I’m sure that once I’m back with Hollis, in his arms and in his bed, I’ll be happy.
I doubt I’ll even remember Ford.
I doubt.
• • •
The cheeseburgers are amazing, and hunched over the kitchen table, I eat with abandon, shoving bites of burger and fries into my mouth at the same time. I’m ravenous, and the sex-a-thon Ford and I just shared has only spurred my appetite.
I take a pull from my vanilla shake and fight a momentary brain freeze before digging back into my meal. Ford watches me with amusement as he eats, and then, when he’s had his fill, offers me the rest of his fries. Greedy, I take them, because I’m finding it difficult to fill the bottomless pit that used to be my stomach.
“Do you know what we should make tomorrow?” I take a bite and swallow, take another, and proceed to talk with my mouth full. “Peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.”
Ford, who’s leaning back in his chair with his bare feet crossed at his ankles, wrinkles his nose. “Peanut butter and pickle?”
I nod, press four fries together, and swipe them through some chili.
He watches me, tracking my movements, and laughs. “You’re beautiful and disgusting, you know that?”
I pop the glob into my mouth and give an overexaggerated moan of pleasure. “Yet you love me.” Then, realizing what I just said, realizing I shouldn’t be enabling this infatuation between us any more than I have been, I try to think of something – anything – to steer the conversation into more neutral waters. Casting my gaze around the table, I note the newspaper he was reading earlier. I flatten my palm against it, pull it close. “What’s the deal with the newspaper?” I ask, peering down at the page it’s open to.
Ford doesn’t respond, though I can feel the modest boy-next-door energy radiating right off him. After reading a few lines, I can see why.
I look up at him, lick some cheese sauce from my lip. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He blushes an adorable shade of red and shrugs.
Glancing back down at the paper, I read the article, taking giant slugs from my vanilla shake as I do.
Duluth’s own Ford Evans will be a feature artist at the opening of Minnesota’s newest art gallery, The Crooked Wild, located in Lost Bay. The Crooked Wild will open its doors for the first time on September 17, and the event will be catered by Xavier’s Kitchen, with coffee and dessert provided by Lost Bay’s newest bakery, Lenny’s Place. The gallery’s aim is to provide a platform for local talent, with plans to highlight photographers and artists from the north central Midwest. According to owner and sculptor Soleil Fenrir, “It’s our desire to reveal the heart of America’s Heartland.” Along with Evans, the gallery’s opening will also display works by painter Jen Malone (Cedar Hills, Iowa) and sculptor Jax Lefevre (Somerset, Wisconsin), respectively. The doors open at six o’clock sharp…
Sandwiched in the article’s layout is a picture of Ford, containing a short blurb about his photography along with his contact information. In the photo, he’s dressed in his usual black attire, standing casually against a wall displaying one of his photographs: an up close and personal shot of one of Lake Superior’s rolling waves, caught from the inside and bespeckled by the setting sun.
I raise my brows, shoot him a stern look. “You are too modest for your own good.” Then I smile. “Forrrrd! Seriously. This is absolutely amazing!”
“It’s not that big of a deal, Becca. Seriously. I’ve been a feature artist before, at several galleries, in fact.” But his grin is wide, and his eyes are dancing, and I can tell he’s pleased with my reaction.
Whoever’s running the show upstairs, It doesn’t make many like this guy, that’s for sure.
I just make a face at him, which makes him laugh, and while I finish the rest of my meal, he pops a kiss on my head and heads off to take a shower.
I haven’t read an actual paper in years, so I flip through a few pages, and soon my fingers are tattooed in its greasy ink. Nothing much is of interest; however, the velvety paper and smell of newsprint strike a chord of nostalgia. I’m reminded of times long gone, back when I was a kid and would spend hours in the shed behind the shack we called a house, a stack of books piled next to my hip, lost to everything but the words on the page. There, hidden away from the needy demands of my mother and siblings, I could become someone else, anyone else; slipping into a different reality was as easy as taking a breath. Sometimes, it seemed, I fell in love with the actual words more than the story itself. The rolling way they flowed was like balm to my soul, medicine for my tortured mind. It was almost hypnotic, the way I’d get caught in their rhythm, like the very sentence structure was rewiring my brain, making me better, safer.
Nothing could touch me when my nose was buried in a book.
My love of words was one of the reasons I developed such an affection for poetry. It was stimulating and numbing at the same time. I devoured poems like they were pain pills, popping open a book whenever I needed a fix. I was seventeen when Hollis bought me a book of poems by Emily Dickinson, a poet I’d loved since the age of nine. When I opened the package, he apologized that it was only a second edition and not a first, though I hardly cared. The date of publication was still 1892, which made it more valuable than anything I owned. Truth be told, the book could have come straight off the shelf of the local Barnes and Noble, and I would have been just as over-the-moon happy about it as I was with the edition that he gave me. It was poetry, and it was from Hollis, and it was perfect.