What the Living Do by Susan E. Wadds

Author:Susan E. Wadds
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2024-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

13

I’ve stopped writing poetry. Sometimes I still eat the right food. Sometimes I drink the juices and smoothies and not the coffee. My stomach won’t calm down. I’m trying, really trying to be good. The blackness beyond the hospital doors is simply fear, I’ve decided. I just have to get a grip.

After delivering Dante to his owner, I find Cole already awake and on the ottoman, working out the chords to some sad-sounding song. Beckett on his cushion, perked his head up when I came through the door, but didn’t rush to greet me.

I come to them, snuggle into the sliver-sized place beside Cole, letting the warmth of him seep in through my heavy pants. With his head tilted toward the guitar’s body, Cole continues to work his fingers along the strings.

“Thank you,” I venture, not directly into his ear, but close enough for him to hear over the music.

He thumbs all the strings at once, creating a discordant, irritated and irritating twang. “You’re welcome.” He doesn’t look up. “Now can I work on this song?”

“Of course.” I struggle to keep the hurt from my tone. “Cole?”

He makes a flat sound through closed lips. Drumming his long fingers on the side of the guitar, his foot keeps time to something I can’t hear.

I bring my hand to his cheek and hold it steady even though he flinches at my touch. “I don’t want to make any more mistakes. I think I…” I take a hard breath. “I think I love you, Cole.”

His response is a reverse response, like spring runoff sucked back up the mountain.

“I’ve never been so sorry in my life. I have no excuses. None. Please, Cole, look at me. Remember me.” I stroke his head, his soft head, my words blurring in my mouth.

Those long fingers wrap around my hand, pull it off his head, and place it in my own lap. His brow buckles like a belt.

“Why don’t we just make love? We can, you know.”

He stands in one motion, sending his guitar bonging to the floor. The look he gives me stops my blood, so full of pain and something else that looks too much like hatred to bear. I bend over, pick up the guitar, and set it on its stand. If we just touch each other, seek out those sweet spots we know so well, we have a chance of beginning again. I could make him feel good, erase those lines around his mouth and replace them with kisses, lots of kisses.

He’s gone to the kitchen where he opens and closes, opens and closes, the fridge, creating a rhythmic percussion of jars and bottles. I go to the bathroom for a hot shower. Letting the water course down my body, I undo my braid and shake out my hair, and stand under the scalding water until it runs cool. No Cole parting the curtain, no smooth strong hands on my buttocks, their calluses catching just enough to arouse me. Just me with my empty breasts and lonely bum.

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