Selena Kitt - Quickies

He didn't try to quiet her, he just let her storm, until finally she eddied and then ebbed, in hitching sighs, fits and starts.

"This is why I don't believe in God," he said finally. His voice was as lifeless as she had ever heard it and she winced, pained, feeling as helpless and hopeless as he sounded. "If there was a God, and he cared about what happened to us, then I wouldn't have cancer, and…" he hesitated only a moment, the words barely above a whisper as he breathed, "I would have you."

"I'm sorry, David." It was hardly enough. She didn't know what else to offer him, although she desperately wanted to comfort him, ease his pain, and her own. "Maybe there is a bigger picture that we can't see…"

She felt his laugh, cynical and bitter, against her ear. "Yeah, sure. Famine, war, it's all part of the plan. My grandfather's ashes carried over Krakow on the wind. All part of some grand plan. You can't really believe that?" He sounded incredulous. "This isn't heaven, Dawn. This is hell on earth, every damned day."

She clasped his hand in hers, pressing it between her breasts. Her heart was beating hard. "I believe in us. I believe that what we have transcends anything else, everything else, even death." Her voice was shaking. "Even death. Yes, ok, this is hell on earth… but it is also heaven on earth. This is all we will ever have, and it really is divine."

He pressed his shaking hand to hers, over her heart, his trembling lips against her lips, and they tasted her tears together in that one moment of connection, a brief, fleeting thing that was all they ever had, all we ever have, something forever sacred and inviolate, one transcendent moment of wonder in the great mystery of it all.

Sam had a guitar, and he could play. No one else was very impressed with this fact, I guess, because I was the one who stayed at his feet all night, begging him to play another song for me. He would smile and oblige, as willing to have an audience as I was to hear him play and sing in his smooth voice. He went through his entire repertoire for me, so that by 2 a.m., everyone else had gone to bed, and it was just me and Sam sitting alone in the living room, me holding the music, turning the pages, him strumming his guitar and singing in my ear.

"Play another one," I begged, opening my eyes when the music came to a slow, sweet halt. He grinned.

"You're insatiable." He idly strummed.

"I know, I'm sorry." I leaned back against his leg. "You’re such a nice guy, to sit up with me and do this… I'd listen all night long. You can stop if you want to."

"Nice guy, eh? I’ve been called a lot… I can’t remember being called that one.” He laughed softly. “You know, I think I've played every song I know…” My disappointment must have been palpable because he said, “But… I can still sing to you." We both looked up in surprise when the timer-light on the lamp went out and we were left in the dark.

"It's a sign." I laughed. He smiled in the dark, and I saw the glint of the moonlight and the streetlight outside coming in from the window on his teeth.

"Maybe it is." He slid to the floor next to me and putting his guitar aside. "So what do you want me to sing?"

"Anything at all," I said eagerly. He started singing a Simon and Garfunkel song that he had played earlier on the guitar, and I closed my eyes to listen. It seemed natural when he moved behind me, his hands rubbing my shoulders, whispering,

"Relax" and then singing softly in my ear, his breath warm and sweet on the side of my face. I let myself go, all the tension in my body that had been building for weeks released with the touch of his large, warm hands. I didn't think about anything but the sound of his voice, and the feel of him against me, his long legs stretched out next to mine, his hands slipping under my shirt so I could feel the calluses left by the guitar strings on his fingertips as they brushed my back.

"When you're weary," he sang. "Feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all…" Listening to the words made me feel so safe with him at a time when nothing else in my life was secure.

"You're so special, Maggie," he whispered against my neck, and for a moment I was clear-headed, knowing that this couldn't happen, even though I wanted it to. I was still married-Sam was married. We were separated, but legally, we were both still committed to someone else. I jumped when I heard a noise on the stairs, thinking it was Alison coming down to check on us, but thankfully it was just her cat who sat and stared at us with glowing, yellow-rimmed eyes in the dimness. I loved Alison, we’d been friends forever, and she’d taken me in after I’d left Tom, with nowhere to go and my two small children. (It hadn’t yet been a month since I’d discovered the hotel room bills and listened to his lies.) But I admit, I’d questioned her judgment when she told me that Sam and Josephine were coming to stay for the night, because her place was closer to the airport. Sam… her beautiful, talented, wayward and often manipulative ex-boyfriend…

and now soon-to-be ex-husband of Josie… I imagined, when she’d told me, seeing the light in her eyes, that she wanted some sort of reconciliation to take place between her and Sam. She had flirted with him mercilessly all night, but he’d been lukewarm, and seemed to prefer playing and singing for me than talking to her. And now here I was, questioning my own judgment. What was I thinking?

“How long have you been playing?” I asked, thinking I might change the subject and shift our gears a bit.

“Guitars? Or women?” His lips grazed my hairline. I swallowed hard. “They’re actually a lot alike.”

“Really? How?”

“Well… a guitar really is a woman you know… she has a mouth,” he touched my lips with his fingers. “And a neck,” his hand moved down my throat. “And the shape of a guitar is like the shape of a woman… a full, sensual, curvy woman… this shape here…” he ran his hands up over my hips, dipped in at my waist, and moved up my sides toward my breasts. “Do you feel that?” his hands moving back down again. I nodded, not trusting my voice. “And you know… she needs some fine-tuning sometimes… can be a little temperamental. But when you play her well… she can really sing.” I smiled at this metaphor. He had me, and he knew it.

“Sam…” wanting to and not wanting to break the spell. “Where is this going?" I asked hesitantly.

"You tell me," he whispered, his brushing my earlobe.

"I'm afraid."

"If you're afraid, we'll stop. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

He moved so that he was kneeling in front of me, cupping my face in his hands. "You're so beautiful. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think you were… absolutely amazing…

really… I hope you know that." I knew what it sounded like, but at 2 a.m., with a little bit of alcohol in me, and an ego that felt reduced to the size of a pea, I wanted to believe him and I did.

"I'm afraid," I repeated, my voice and chin trembling. He kissed the tears on my eyelids.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid of doing this," I replied. "And…" I hung my head to hide my eyes, speaking softly. "And I'm afraid of regretting it if I don't."

"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I won't hurt you." I didn't know if I should believe him, but I did because I needed to. It felt incredible to have someone want me, his mouth, his hands telling me with every movement that he wanted me.

"Why are we doing this?" I asked breathlessly into his neck, his weight on me like a blanket, safe and warm.

"I want to make you feel good." He pulled up my shirt inch by inch, following each tug with a kiss. "Making you feel good will make me feel good. What's the harm in that?"