Chapter Twenty-Two
Sharon
Baby Can I Hold You by Tracy Chapman
I don’t normally sleep immediately after an orgasm.
Truth be told, I often use them to wake me up in the morning, or give me a little burst of energy during the day.
Once or twice, I’ve even gone to the Ladies toilets at work and stuck my hand in my underwear, just to get me through the rest of the afternoon without resorting to a chocolate muffin from the cafeteria.
But none of those quick and perfunctory orgasms were anything like the many Florence Fucking Nightingale just gave me, again and again, with all four of her fingers buried in my cunt.
So it’s not a surprise that I wake in the same position I was in, still naked. Kate is on her side and looking down at me with a quizzical expression.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask.
“Barely ten minutes,” she replies. “I was just considering the best way to get you under your covers.”
“I’m open to your suggestions. I’m not sure I can move.”
Kate’s laugh is a high-pitched tinkling. Again, I think of birdsong. I wonder dreamily if the nightingale is ever seen in London. “That bad?” she asks.
“That good,” I answer and only retrospectively wonder if I’ve said too much.
“Well, I’m glad you woke up.” Kate rolls off the bed and walks to my chest of drawers. “Because you also need to drink some water.”
“Water?”
“Sex can be dehydrating,” she says as she finds my drawers of T-shirts and pulls out one I got from a k.d. lang concert. She holds it up before putting it on. “Yeah, sure, Sharon. Nobody would ever think you’re gay.”
Part of me wants to laugh at her sarcasm. Another part of me wants to throw a pillow at her. Naturally, I opt for the latter.
“Hey!” Kate calls out as my pillow hits her stomach. Without hesitation she throws it back and it lands on my head. “Don’t move,” she says while my face is still covered. “I’ll be back.”
I do move. Because as soon as she leaves the room I become instantly self-conscious of my nudity, specifically how I haven’t even thought about sucking my stomach in since Kate threw me on this bed, and lying flat on my back is hardly my most flattering angle.
So I follow Kate’s footsteps and pull out another T-shirt, this time one for Alison Moyet.
Okay, fine. Maybe she has a point.
I then find some clean underwear and run my fingers through my hair, grateful for the small mirror on top of my chest of drawers which tells me my hair looks fine.
But then I stop and look at my reflection a little closer.
I look more than fine. I look… glowy. There’s a rosy-pink sheen to my cheeks, my eyes are bright and alert, and my lips are swollen and red.
I look relaxed and happy and alive. I look… pretty.
Kate’s reappearance at the door pulls me away from the mirror, no doubt blushing harder than I was before, so I keep my back to her as I climb back up onto the bed and slip under the duvet.
“Your limbs have recovered mobility, I see,” she says as she moves into the room and I finally look at her.
Carrying two large glasses of water – in the pint glasses Danny likes to steal from various London drinking establishments – there are two apples balanced on the rims of the glasses.
They look like strange cocktails. She must notice my confused expression because she explains, “The apple will help keep your blood sugar up.”
“I didn’t know my blood sugar was at risk of going down,” I comment, sounding perhaps more sardonic than I intend.
“You just came very hard, more than once,” Kate says matter-of-factly as she sets the glasses and apples down. “Your hormones are all over the place and blood glucose levels can often drop after strenuous physical activity.”
I snort. “But I literally just lay there…” I stop talking as a single thought fills my brain. “Wait. You didn’t. You haven’t…” I look up at her.
“What?”
“You didn’t come.”
She rolls her eyes and climbs over me to get into bed, grabbing an apple on the way. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But…” Again, words fail me. “I think it does matter.”
“No. It doesn’t,” she says tightly before taking a large, crunching bite of her apple.
“Don’t you want to come?”
“Not now.”
“But did you… then? Earlier? Did I fuck up by not making you come?”
“I came in the living room, when I was going down on you.”
My stomach flips with pride at hearing that. At the idea that just going down on me turned her on that much.
“Yeah, but that was then and…” I roll over to face her and it’s a mistake. She looks so fucking cute and pretty and goddamn sexy wearing my T-shirt and nothing else, chewing on an apple, in my bed. “I’m not saying I would be any good at it, but I’d like to try to make you come.”
I flinch with surprise when her hand comes up and brushes my cheek. I can smell the apple on her skin – fresh and vibrant and juicy – or maybe that’s just her. “I don’t want to come again. Trust me, if I wanted to I would have climbed on your leg and got myself there by riding your thigh.”
When I swallow it’s around a strange but not uncomfortable lump. “Oh.”
“And it’s not because I don’t think you can make me come. Believe me, I’m very curious to find out what your hands and mouth could do to me, but it’s late. I’m tired. And your bed is very, very comfortable.”
“You’re… you’re staying?”
She drops her hand. “Is that not okay?”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, possibly too quickly. “I don’t have to be in the office until lunch and even then it’s just for one meeting. So yes, you can stay. If you want to, I mean.”
Kate’s body shakes with a small laugh. “Don’t try and be coy, Sharon Goldblatt, it doesn’t suit you.”
“Well, then do what you want,” I mumble, rolling over to lie on my back.
If I was surprised when she touched my face, I’m absolutely frozen with shock when she climbs on top of me. “Don’t do that,” she tells me, her eyes dark and intent on me.
“What?”
“Get your back up when I make one little sarcastic comment.”
“You make a lot of little sarcastic comments,” I hold her gaze. “And little things add up to big things, don’t you think?”
“Fine, I’m sarcastic,” she says and then I’m further shocked when she rolls her hips against me, letting me know her cunt is directly above mine, with just my duvet between us. “What are you going to do about it?”
The arch in her eyebrow is as challenging as the tone of her voice and I wish I could rise to it. I wish I could roll her over and devour her the way she did me. I wish I could silence her with orgasms. But I can’t. I don’t know how.
“Ignore you,” I say, rather pathetically, and close my eyes.
There is nothing for a few seconds. No noise. No movement. Nothing but an all-encompassing feeling of dread. Have I sulked once too much? Has she had enough of my kvetching for good? Is she about to sneak out and leave because she’s finally seen what a grump I truly am?
I open one eye.
Kate is still here. She hasn’t moved. Apart from her mouth, which is smiling widely, like a laugh is pushing up against her lips from the inside.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re an idiot, do you know that?” Her voice is soft, kind, gentle, and her comment is punctuated with a light burst of laughter. More birdsong.
My panic at the prospect of her leaving has barely dissipated when I’m full of defensiveness again, wanting to bite back, to tell her she’s an idiot too, or worse, but then she continues to laugh, little chuckles that float in the room like bubbles.
And her eyes… her eyes are shining with warmth, with affection, with…
I sigh. Loudly. “I don’t know why I’m like this,” I declare to the ceiling.
Kate tumbles to the side and curls up next to me. She places her head on my chest. Every atom of my body freezes, unsure if I’m supposed to hold her to me, like I want to, or just stay still.
“I don’t know either,” she says, still all soft, quiet words. “But it makes me smile.”
Tentatively, I place my hand on her back and she snuggles into my chest as if to reward me for the bravery of such a simple touch.
As my palm and fingers relax against my T-shirt that Kate is wearing, I start to feel her heat, her supple but strong back, and her smell reaches my nose again, like a bouquet of flowers is in the room. Desire returns like it never went away.
“I still feel terrible for not making you come,” I tell her.
“Please don’t,” she says and her voice is now something more than gentle, it’s sleepy. “I don’t come a lot during sex.”
I understand the words she just said, but I don’t fully grasp their meaning. “What do you mean?”
“Partners don’t make me come – during sex, I mean. I do.”
“You mean men?”
I hear a soft tut before she replies. “I mean all of my past partners. Male, female, whatever.”
I think about her grinding down on her heel of her foot and the short moans that vibrated through her body.
“Is that… is that normal?”
“Fuck, yeah. Especially among my friends who date or are married to men.”
I chew on that for a second. “Don’t you want it to be different?”
“Not really,” she sniffs and I wish I could see her face. I wish I could see what her dark eyes reveal. “I like making people come. It’s more than enough for me.”
People… I let the word land with a heavy thud.
“Besides, this is actually better than sex.”
“This?”
“Just lying on you. You’re so warm and comfortable and… fuck, I could fall asleep.”
“I’m not sure that’s the compliment you think it is. You’ve basically described me as a pillow.”
“I could call you a lot worse, if you want.”
“I don’t want,” I say and despite myself I wriggle down under the covers a bit more and use my hand on Kate to hold her a little tighter against me.
Silence falls between us and it’s interrupted only by faint traffic sounds, the occasional siren or car horn and one or two fox wails. They’re all sounds I’ve heard a hundred times before, but tonight they seem clearer, crisper, more real.
My attention turns to Kate and specifically to where her body is pressed against the side of mine. Trying to detect if her breathing has slowed or deepened, I’m surprised when she suddenly starts talking again.
“You know what would be better than an orgasm right now?”
After the last hour of my life, I honestly can’t imagine anything would be better. “What?”
Kate lifts her head and looks at me. “A cup of tea.”
“A cup of tea?”
“Yes, a steaming hot cup of tea. That stays hot, while I drink it, isn’t stewed and doesn’t go cold because I get interrupted.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “I could make you a cup of tea.”
“Would you? I really didn’t say that to make you do so. I was just thinking out loud and trying to summon the energy to get out of bed to boil the kettle…”
I huff out a soft laugh. “I’m not sure I believe that, but I owe you, so I will make you a cup of tea.” I swing my body out of bed. “Stay there.”
“Really?”
“I’m halfway to the door already.” I reach for my dressing gown which is hanging up on the back of the door. “But I’m going to make it my way, not your way.”
“I don’t care if you make it standing on your head while yodelling.” Kate collapses back into the pillows. Pillows on my bed. Kate is lying in my bed. I blink at the scene, half-expecting her to disappear. But she doesn’t. She stays there, smiling and snuggling under the duvet.
“Don’t move,” I tell her.
As I leave the room, I hear her call out, “I don’t plan on it.”
*****
Kate is all smiles when I return to the bedroom holding two mugs of tea with a plate of rugelach balanced on top of one of the cups.
She sits up and takes her mug eagerly, looking childlike with eagerness and excitement.
And all for a cup of tea. It’s another reminder of how hard she works, how busy her days are, and how as the ward’s charge nurse, there isn’t anybody making her a cup of tea, or rather making sure she has enough time to drink it while it’s still hot.
“Thank you,” she says as she takes her first sip.
“You’re welcome,” I say, placing the rugelach on the bed between us as I sit down next to her.
“Ooh, what are these?”
“Rugelach,” I say and hate how a quick rush of heat fills my cheeks. “They’re Jewish pastries. I’ve been making them for my breakfasts now I have a bit more time in the mornings. And I was thinking about taking some in for the everyone tomorrow.”
Kate picks one up and inspects it. “Hmm, looks good. And smells good.”
“It will taste good too,” I tell her confidently. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
Kate brings the rugelach to her lips but doesn’t take a bite. Instead, she asks, “Are you close to her?”
I wince. “She died. Last month. But we were close, at one time.”
“Shall we not talk about family?” Kate suggests and then takes a large bite. “Oh, God, that’s good.”
She chews, swallows, and takes another bite. I smile, watching her. I’m quite sure the pride I feel has raised my body temperature.
“Like I said, my grandmother’s recipe,” I explain, but my voice is quieter, smaller. I cough. “No, let’s not talk about family. That’s a very good idea.”
“Deal,” Kate nods and reaches for another pastry. I watch her eat that too. “Aren’t you going to have one?”
“No,” I say abruptly and when Kate immediately opens her mouth again, I jump to change the topic. “Do you think Danny will ever get to come home?”
Kate’s lips close. She looks stunned and she places the final bite of her rugelach back on the plate. I don’t blame her. I’ve astonished myself with my terrible subject change.
I could pretend I don’t want the answer to this question. That I pulled this enquiry out of nowhere. But that would be a lie. I do want to know what Kate thinks about Danny’s prognosis. In fact, I’ve been desperate to hear somebody tell me honestly what the future looks like for him, for me.
Carefully, Kate moves the plate over to the bedside table nearest her and then does the same with my mug. She slides closer to me and wraps her hands around my body. With a firm yank, she tugs me down to lying again and we’re practically in the same position we were in before I made tea.
I expect her to talk, to give me a blow-by-blow account of what horrors lie ahead for Danny. I expect her to be gentle but blunt, to tell me not to expect him to come home, to prepare myself for the worst…
And then, out of nowhere, comes the hope.
The hope that she’ll tell me miracles happen.
That Danny could get better. That Danny will come home, not to die, but to live.
To fill our flat with music and laughter and feather boas.
That Danny will have many more days ahead of him.
Days for lounging on the sofa together, doing the crossword.
And nights. Nights for dancing and drinking and making new friends and lovers and everything in between.
Nights that maybe I will join him in the gay bars and clubs of Soho.
Nights when we can make memories that will last both of our long, long lifetimes.
But Kate doesn’t say anything. She just holds me. She holds me so securely, and she doesn’t let go. Not even to drink her tea while it’s still hot.And that, I realise, is her answer.