Chapter 15 Mickey #2
“We don’t have to figure out every piece of this tonight, Mickey.
Tonight we have Tex’s food and a semi-glaze emergency that I still need to tell you about in full.
Because the second act of the pot saga involves a voicemail that she left me at eleven-thirty this morning that was four minutes long and included the phrase ‘artisanal clay treatment,’ which I’m pretty sure she made up on the spot. ”
He’s talking faster. I let him because he’s right that we don’t need to solve everything tonight.
And because the Kacie saga is genuinely entertaining and having him in this chair talking about artisanal clay treatments is better than not having him here at all.
And because I’m watching the chain at his throat shift against his skin when he leans forward.
I want these forty-five minutes to be exactly like this.
As long as he’s talking, I have a legitimate reason to stare at him.
He tells me about Kacie’s voicemail. Except he doesn’t just tell me. He performs it. He sits up straight in the chair and holds his phone to his ear like a prop and does Kacie’s voice, a sweet, syrupy Panhandle drawl, and the room becomes a one-man show.
“‘Hey Benji, it’s Kacie from Beach Blooms. So I just wanted to follow up on our conversation about the pots because I’ve been thinking about it and I talked to my supplier and he mentioned something called an artisanal clay treatment which is sort of like a glaze but not a glaze, it’s more like a sealant that gives the pot a natural sheen without looking, you know, glazed, so it’s like the best of both worlds? ’”
He pauses and looks at me. “Notice the question mark in her voice. She’s asking me if her own idea is good. She doesn’t know. She’s making it up as she goes. It gets worse.”
He puts the phone back to his ear. “‘And I was also thinking, and this is just a thought, but what if we did a light wash on the outside? Not a glaze, just a wash. Like a watercolor effect? The clay still looks raw but it has, like, a glow? I saw it on Pinterest and it was really beautiful, Benji, and I think it would really complement the wildflower aesthetic we’re going for? Anyway, call me back when you get a chance. Have a blessed day!’”
He drops the phone from his ear. “She Pinterested it, Mickey. She Pinterested my luxury beach front wedding. She’s scrolling Pinterest for clay pot ideas instead of filling the order I gave her two weeks ago.
And she blessed-dayed me at the end. As if that makes up for the fact she’s fucking lying to me and has been the whole time. ”
I’m laughing and it feels like medicine in a way that the actual medicine they’re giving me here never can.
He packs up the cooler when we’re done, organizing the leftovers. He’s been here enough times that the space feels partly his too as he moves around the room. He fixes the window shades exactly right, wipes down my tray table and centers the trash can.
I watch him and try not to think about Jacksonville and the coming weeks. And the fact that after tonight, I have one more visit with Benji before Dante arrives. Before Benji’s Miami world walks into this hospital room.
Before the nurse comes, Benji pulls the cream off the nightstand. “I was planning to go light up the nurses for not taking better care of you,” he says, pumping cream into his palm. “But I guess there’s no point now if you’re leaving. They’re lucky.”
I don’t tell him he doesn’t need to do the cream.
Why would I? It’s the best part of my day.
He does my hands, my forearms, my shoulders.
I close my eyes because if I keep them open, he’ll see what he’s doing to me and I’m not ready for him to see that.
My whole body above the waist goes still with the effort of not reaching for him.
I’m dying to touch him and I can’t. I can’t think about that.
This is all going to be over very soon anyway.
Then he lifts the blanket. Same as last time.
No announcement, no asking. He just goes to my feet because Benji doesn’t stop halfway through anything.
I open my eyes because I have to watch this part.
Watching is the only way I know he’s touching me.
His thumbs press into my arch and I see the skin move under his fingers and there’s nothing.
No signal. Just the sight of hands on a body that doesn’t know they’re there.
He finishes and pulls the sheet back over my legs. He caps the bottle, sets it on the nightstand, and sits back in the chair. His cheeks are flushed and he doesn’t look at me right away.
The nurse appears at eight and smiles at us. Benji sighs and he stands.
“Visiting hours are over. Time to go. Have a blessed evening.”
Benji’s eyes shoot to mine. “Thank you,” he says. “You too.”
The nurse leaves. Benji grabs his bag. The fluorescent light behind him catches the edges of his blonde hair, and he looks exhausted.
“Want to keep talking in the car?” I ask. “I don’t like the thought of you driving two hours in the dark on that highway.”
His face lights up. “Of course, I do! I’ll call you from the car. You know me. I’ll talk all day and night.”
I grab my phone. His call comes ten minutes later. We talk for two hours straight and don’t hang up until he’s safely inside the condo. It’s becoming our new thing. Texting all day back and forth. Talking two hours on the way to visit me, then two hours back.
I try not to wonder when will be the last time I see him.
Will it be tomorrow? The next day?
I don’t know the exact day.
I know it’ll be soon.
I put the phone down and close my eyes. I can still feel his hands in the places where they landed on skin that works, his thumbs in my palms, his fingers on my forearms, the warmth on my shoulders and the back of my neck, all of it still humming.
And I do something I haven’t done before. I imagine the rest. I imagine feeling his hands on my feet, the press of his thumbs into my arch, the long stroke up my calf. I’m trying to make my body remember something it never felt.
It doesn’t work.
The legs stay silent.