cavatica

For now, this is all she wrote. There's probably more; I don't know what yet. Don't expect any follow-ups in the immediate future, but thoughts, comments, suggestions, etc. are, as ever, more than welcome.

Glee!
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She woke leisurely, foggily. Dawn was slow in coming; it broke against her windows in non-shades of graying pink and orange, thick with cold. The world had been deep frozen the night beforetoo frigid even for frost, hard and merciless, lustily biting at skin and bones and all the soft, warm tissue in between. Marrow-cold. It sucked at you.

She had found warmth in her half-lit room and a tractable malehers, of course; not some haphazard frat boy she pulled off the streetthough he had not been hers before that night. The chase had been art, she thought serenely, stretching and smiling despite herself. A masterpiece, executed with subtlety and finesse. She had pursued him so longand all this time, all shed needed was a good, freezing December night. After all: who, given the option of solitude or sex, would choose the former?

Well, probably a lot of people.

But not him. Certainly not her.

She angled her head to rest her chin on her own shoulder. He was lying on his side, away from her. Figured. But talk about works of art. All she wanted to do was look at him and he didnt even extend the courtesy of facing her. It was just as well. He was probably drooling. She couldnt blame him; given the passionate nature of their long overdue consummation, it only made sense that he would achieve new levels of unconsciousness. She opted not to disturb him. She needed to get clean, anyway.

She hesitated, then, anticipating the chilly, invasive touch of air on her naked, bed-rosy skinthe blankets suddenly felt warmer for her knowledge of the coldand for a moment, she considered drawing the comforter up to her chin and lapsing into a second hibernation. Skin on skin. Some back, unexplored corner of her brain vaguely recalled some generally acquired nugget about how it was best to stave off hypothermia by being naked with someone else. Opposing curves met in a sleeping bag in the woods somewhereall those limbs tangled up in closed quarters, seeking refuge from the merciless, numbing night. Conservation of body heat. Survival of the fittest.

Friction.

She turned on her side, slid sleep-heavy fingers up to his hip. She cupped her palm and squeezed, testing, nudging at his feet with her icy toes, pressing her lips to his neck and expelling a long, warm sigh. He didnt stir.

Shower, she thought. Hot and soothing. Shower and come back to him clean and coral and warm to the touch. Hell wake then. Hell have to.

She inhaled, threw back the covers, and winced. Oh, God. Too cold. Toooh, Jesus, that was freezing. Shed have to do something about that draft. She couldnt abide sleeping with the heat onall it did was make the room stuffy, the air practically unbreathablebut this was just ridiculous.

The sun was all but risen, now. A glance to her window revealed a sky rendered in vivid blue; the dark, angular spires of bare trees stabbed at it with crooked fingers, black and tortured by comparison. It was hyperbolic irony: the too-cheerful theme offsetting the terrifying climax of a horror movie. Only the really sick directors did that sort of thing. The ones people idolized as geniuses.

She minced to the shower in quick, tiptoeing steps, snatching a towel from the floor to wrap around her even in the short distance from her bed to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her with a quiet click, and in a single smooth motion, torqued the shower taps. It would take the water a moment to heat up; she took the opportunity to relieve herself, clutching her towel against her body. There had been some alcohol last nightnot much, but enough. She was surprised, now that she thought about it, that she hadnt awakened in the middle of the night to piss. She must have been exhausted.

What a shame.

She smiled.

Steam billowed invitingly from the shower; she finished, discarded her towel, slipped in. She flinched as the first tongues of hot water splashed against her shoulders, but adjusted quickly; she tipped her head back, let the thousands of little pinpricks work at her neck and back and scalp. Wash away, she thought. Wash it all awaythe dirt and the odor and the everything; take it all, swirl it at my feet. Swoosh. Guzzle. Gone.

It was permeating, intoxicating, therapeutic. Invisible tendrils of sultry moisture rose from her skin, and she turned half-lidded eyes down to watch rivulets of water etch imaginary gullies in her hips, fascinated by their urgency to reach the black depths of the drain at her feet. Wouldn't they rather lingerperhaps around a breast or a thigh, or maybe in the crook of an elbow or knee? They sheeted off her fingers and tickled at more tender parts, drawing her into the constant humming and splashing, urging her to melt away. Flash, flash, flash, fall.

Strange dreams, she thought distantly. All night, strange dreams. Had she actually been drunk? The gaps in her memory, she realized uneasily, were hugethe lines of sleeping and wakefulness were practically indistinguishable. She remembered him. Oh, yes. She remembered. She rememberedbeing him? She strained to recall. There was some vague notion, lurking in the fore of her hindsight, of reachingbut notand theyd mixed so beautifully, twined so well. The tears still felt hot on her cheeks. And then nothing. Blackness. Beautiful, warm, relieving blackness, and some inarticulately primal part of her sated as never before. But he had been so silent.

So silent.

Strange, strange dreams.

She shampooed, conditioned. Her legs were still smooth; no need to shave. She selected a small bottle of vanilla-sugar body washshe used it infrequently, and only for special occasions. It was one of her favorite scents; she loved the idea of smelling that way. It was so feminine. Herbs and flowers in her hair, sugar in her skin. She wished, delighted with herself, that she could be a man, to smell and taste a woman as only a man was able.

And yet, to inhabit this skin, these curvesand know it, and control with itthat was really a pleasure. Ah, she thought, flipping the water off with a decisive flick of the wrist, hedonism. Narcissism. Well, she was entitled today.

She toweled off, squeezed and shook out her hair. Lotion on her legs and face and breasts and shoulders; a hard brush through her tangles; all of her smoothed and softened and made dry. Women had been doing this for centuries. Millennia. Was it any wonder that bathing was such a sacred ritual? She was giddy with anticipation. There were days, she knew, when he would see her bedraggled or ill or out of sorts; days when she was frazzled and distracted and maybe even a little stupid. It was the way she was most days, really. And if he could love her thenwell, then, that was really love, wasnt it? But sometimes, too, she was bright and torrid and utterly female, and he deserved her then, too. Thats how she wanted to be, this first full day together. Happy and clean. She loved him so very much. She opened the door to the bedroom.

They told her later he had died sometime in the early morningmaybe even a few hours before she had risen. It was hard to say. It looked like heart failure. Or an aneurism. Or both. Or neither. No one could explain why. They still had a lot of tests to do. It might not be wise, they suggested gently, laying cold hands on her shoulders, or stroking her hair, or touching her arm, to leave town until they knew for sure. It wasnt anything personal. She wasnt a suspect.

It was just really hard to say.