Authors: Jane Nin
And then, just as quickly, I stopped. Because a bigger,
calmer question appeared in my head to eclipse all the little panicky ones, and
that question was this:
Who
am I?
I lay on the bed and rolled the question around in my head
like some kind of big, gleaming marble. The doors to the balcony were closed
against the storm outside, which had grown more significant and now pelted the
glass panes with drops and wet bits of leaf and twig, the wind pummeling the
windows and the sash and the hinges like some sort of
being
hell-bent on
getting in. It was dark out there, a scary, slate-colored dark, and when I
looked around the room it had become equally dark and indistinct, a memory,
almost, a half-drawn sketch of a place someone had once stayed.
Leaving the crumpled note on the bed I walked to the balcony
doors. Across the street were these beautiful old buildings, their facades
darkened by the rain. Down below, cars swished through the watery streets with
their wipers beating frantically away. Even in foreign countries, most people
were living their little lives. Going to work. Going home again. Complaining about
the weather.
What had I thrown away, really? A job I hated. It had been
armor against the world, but now I realized—why defend myself? Why not go out
into it undefended, and dare it to do its worst?
I slid the latches on the balcony doors, first at the top,
then at the bottom, and barely touched my hand to the knob before the wind
enthusiastically slammed them open. It screamed into the room carrying more
rain with it, and the treetops outside tossed and churned like an audience
wildly applauding, and to my surprise the wind was not cold at all, but strange
and alive and warm.
I am whoever I wish to be, came my answer, and the wind
tossed more rain in my face, anointing me.
I showered and combed out my storm-rumpled hair and put
myself on the plane as instructed. I was truly exhausted by then, and had hoped
to be able to sleep on the relatively short flight. I downed a glass of
champagne and closed my eyes, but my mind flashed ahead like a lit fuse. I
didn’t even have to stay in Houston. There was nothing keeping me there; all my
old school friends were finally gone. Which meant I could go anywhere. Anyplace
I’d ever been or loved. Someplace I’d never been at all.
And what would I do?
There I grew more anxious again. Certainly, I could get a
job, probably something similar to what I had been doing. I didn’t want to, but
necessities were necessities.
A little voice in my head nudged,
you won’t need a job,
silly, Jack is rich
.
But even if Jack wanted me—that is, wanted me for keeps,
which I was still afraid to hope for—I knew he wouldn’t want me to just be a
satellite. I should have my own goals, my own joys, my own orbit.
At the moment, however, my orbit was on a collision path
with Jack’s. I might as well sit back and enjoy it. I checked my watch: an hour
left. I pulled my sleep mask over my face and finally drifted off.
I had tried to temper my eagerness by telling myself that he
probably wouldn’t be meeting me at the airport, so when I saw Jack’s face
searching for me in the crowd descending the escalator I felt a surge of sweet
elation. He spotted me, and grinned, and I beamed back.
A few days ago he’d been a stranger; now he was the only
familiar thing I had left. I hurried across the polished floor, threw my arms
around him, inhaled his smell.
“Hi,” he said, seeming amused by my enthusiasm, and then he
took me by the shoulders and held me out at arm’s length. “You look different,”
he said. “I guess Paris agreed with you.”
“It was an awkward conversation, but we wound up on the same
page,” I said, still smiling.
“And aren’t you clever,” said Jack, smirking at my little
joke. Then he added, “But you do. You look great.”
“Thank you,” I said. He was right and I was finally ready to
accept that—not bat it away like I had done the other night.
We stopped first at a little café, where we drank coffee and
ate buttery, sugared slices of toast. Though my internal clock was all haywire
now I felt strangely alert: every sensation, from the clinking of our cups
against their saucers to the sweet melting of the butter against my tongue,
made me feel alive and joyful in my body. Jack watched me closely, and this,
too, felt delicious.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you,” he said. “We lost a rig.”
“An oil rig?” I’d forgotten, briefly, about how my way was
being paid.
He nodded grimly.
“Was anyone hurt?”
He looked at me, real sorrow in his eyes.
“Oh god,” I said.
“I keep telling myself accidents happen, because, of course,
they do. But.” He stopped.
“They do happen,” I said, lamely but truthfully.
“They had families, you know. What that must be like.
Just—one day to the next.”
His eyes shone a little and he looked away. I took his hand,
thinking sheepishly about how I’d been sulking over his absence. He let me lace
my fingers into his, then returned my gaze for just a moment, gratefully.
“I know,” I said. “Or I don’t. I know that it’s terrible.”
And as our hands were linked I had a flash of losing him
with equal suddenness—tonight, or in a week, or even just someday. A pain bled
through me and now I, too, was fighting not to show emotion.
He squeezed my hand tight—knowing, maybe. Looking at me.
And then he let go. “Ready?” he said, and I nodded, and we
stood.
“I thought we’d do some charity work,” he explained as we
pulled up outside a hospital.
I glanced at him, wondering if he’d say more.
“I spent too much time in one of these yesterday,” he said.
“It got me to thinking. You know, people stay here for months at a time, some
of them. They must miss the comforts of home.”
“And let me guess,” I said, “am I one of those comforts?”
“I imagine you’re rather nicer than whatever they left
behind,” he said, “but that makes the gesture all the more meaningful.”
We walked through the sleek front doors and at the
information desk he asked for a name. In the elevator, he extracted from his
laptop bag a little folded square of cotton and opened it up. It was a
candystriper’s apron, pristine and new.
“Should I put it on?” I asked.
“It’ll be a private room,” he said, “with its own bathroom.
You can change in there.”
We stepped out of the elevator and began down a long,
mint-green hall. This was the first game where what was being proposed did not
automatically excite me. This hospital, its cold hallways, its smell of
sickness and sterilization, made me want to run back out into the sunshine and
gulp the outside air.
“But won’t that ruin the surprise?”
“I imagine it’ll all be pretty surprising,” said Jack.
“Well hold on,” I said, stopping where we were. “Are you
sure he wants this? I know men are men, but it doesn’t seem right to assume.”
“Don’t worry, he’s a horny bastard,” said Jack. “Always
talking dirty to the nurses. That’s how I got wind of this in the first place.”
“Oh,” I said, still feeling dubious about the whole thing. I
stopped again.
Jack stopped alongside me, looked into my face. “We don’t
have to do this, remember? That was the deal.”
“But the game.”
“Take a pass on this round. We’ll come up with something
else.”
I considered this. “He doesn’t know?”
“No clue,” said Jack.
I thought a moment longer. As we stood there, a gigantic
black orderly in lavender scrubs and a surgical cap pushed a tiny sparrow of a
lady past us in a wheelchair. She gazed up at him raptly, like a little girl at
a father-daughter dance. There was something sweet about it, human and lonely
and sad. He seemed accustomed to her rapturous gaze. As they passed us, I saw
him look me over in an instant, and then he flashed me a gleaming white smile.
“Can I see him, and then decide?” I asked Jack.
We went to the door to his private room, and I stood on
tiptoe to peer in. I don’t know what I was expecting. Someone old, I guess.
Instead, the man who lay in the bed wasn’t much older than I was. Early 40s, I
guessed. But he had strange, overdrawn features, like someone had painted him
sloppily—eyes askew, lips a little slack.
“What happened to him?”
“A stroke,” said Jack.
“But he’s so young.”
“It happened during a routine surgery.”
“You know him?”
Jack nodded. “We used to work together.”
This could have been Jack
, I suddenly thought, and
like that I felt a strange tenderness building in me.
“Do you think…”
He caught my meaning:
could he even fuck?
“I don’t
know.” And he paused, and then, “Sylvie, really, it’s okay.”
“No,” I said, “I want to.”
Jack waited a moment more, and then at my nod he turned the
doorknob and walked in.
“Brynjar,” he said, and the man turned his head slightly in
our direction.
“Jack,” replied the man, slowly but clearly. “Long time, no
see.”
I didn’t wish to be introduced, so I took this moment to
slip into the little bathroom. I took my clothes off and carefully folded them
and set them on the edge of the sink. Then I shook out the little apron and
pulled it over my head. It hung so that the straps barely covered my breasts. I
tied the waist tie, which hung down between the bare cheeks of my ass.
I couldn’t help it. Being half-naked and about to be seen
stirred a little ember of desire down deep in me. I took a look at myself in
the mirror. From the side my breasts were completely exposed. They looked
pretty, gently swelling and inviting to the palm. Maybe he would like to touch
them. Maybe I could make him feel good.
I came out of the bathroom. Nodded to Jack. “Brynjar,” he
said, “I’ve brought a friend.”
Timidly, I approached the bed. Brynjar took a moment to
focus on me, but then his eyes grew wide, his lips parted. His breath grew
audible; I could see his chest rise and fall. He glanced over at Jack, as if to
ascertain that I was indeed at his disposal. Jack gave a little nod.
“
Finally
,” said Brynjar. “Someone’s been listening to
my prayers.”
But I wasn’t sure what to do. “Can I… massage you, or—”
“Take that ridiculous apron off,” he said, “I want to look
at your tits.”
I was taken aback by his directness, but also—well, it was a
nice surprise. I obeyed quietly, untying the apron and setting it on the bed.
My nipples were erect from the industrial-strength air conditioning—as he noted
with a lecherous smirk.
“They keep it freezing in here, the bastards. Come on then,
give us a handful.”
I moved to within reach and bent down a bit. With some
effort, he raised an arm to cup them each in turn, then gave a hard little
pinch to the left nipple. I yelped.
“Oh, good,” he said, “I’m not dreaming.”
“No,” I agreed, not failing to notice the significant
erection now tenting the unglamorous hospital sheets. But the reaching fatigued
him, I could tell. I moved closer to his head, bent forward so my breasts
dangled right down into his face.
He nuzzled them happily, practically slapping them back and
forth as he shook his head to and fro. Then he sucked a nipple into his mouth,
and with a contented groan, began to suckle it hard.
Waves of pleasure shot from my breasts down to my pussy,
which was accommodating itself to any eventual desire by becoming incredibly,
hungrily wet.
Again he lifted an arm, this time flailing it in the general
direction of my hips. He didn’t seem to have the muscle control to bend his arm
so that he could actually touch me. I took his wrist in mine and laid his arm
down on the bed. As he realized what I was doing, he released my nipple with a
wet popping sound. I lifted my right leg and put my knee in the space between
his arm and his side, and then I lowered my spread pussy until I felt it make
contact with his fingertips.
Rotating my hips, I slipped my clit and the wet lips of my
pussy back and forth across his hand.
“Oh god,” he said, crooking his fingers as much as he was
able. I tilted my pelvis back and forth right now, so that the tips of his
middle and ring fingers pushed just past the entrance to my vagina.
“Oh my god,” he repeated, as his fingers slipped in and out
of me. His erect cock twitched between the sheets.
“Do you want me to sit on your cock?” I asked. “Do you want
me to ride your big, fat cock?”
“Oh god yes,” he said, “I want you to slide that sweet wet
pussy all over my cock, I want you to bounce up and down on top of my dick with
those tits flying all over the place and I want you to scream so every nurse on
the goddamned floor will finally wonder what she’s been missing. Can you do
that for me?”