Punk 57(108)

Whatever. It works, I guess.

“Come on.” He pulls me along. “I started you a bath.”

I follow him to the bathroom, watching him strip down and get in, and then he holds out a hand, inviting me in.

I climb in and sit at the other end of the large tub, smiling gratefully when he starts massaging my leg.

“The reporters are insane,” I tell him. “Everybody wants a piece of you.”

“Well, this piece wants you.” And he takes my foot, nudging between his legs with it.

I slowly crawl up on top of him, straddling him but not able to get chest to chest with my belly.

He takes the small silver pitcher I have next to the tub and begins pouring water over my hair. I arch my neck back, the blanket of warmth coating my scalp and back and making me moan.

He kisses my neck. “Can I tell you something?” he asks gently.

I look up, meeting his eyes and nodding.

He smoothes my hair back, looking at me lovingly. “I love you very much, and when we got married it was my hope that we’d be together forever,” he states, “but that mirror thing,”—he points behind me to the wall design I just installed—“is pissing me off. I lose my equilibrium whenever I walk in here.”

I turn around and break into a smile, looking at the array of mirrors installed on the walls, which reflect the mirrors on the opposite wall.

Turning back to him, I lift my chin, nodding. “You’ll get used to it.”

“You say that all the time,” he whines. “I put up with the gothic fireplace in our converted barn home in Thunder Bay, the sewing machine end tables, the fact that I have to walk through a wardrobe to get into the master bathroom, but this mirror thing…”

He trails off, and I kiss his cheek. “It’s a conversational piece.”

He levels me with an unamused look.

I shake with laughter. “If you divorce me, we won’t still have sex.”

He twists up his lips. “Yeah, I figured.”

What a baby. He knew when he married me that I liked being creative. Even if I wasn’t any good at it.

I reach over and flip the knob, turning on the shower over us. It falls behind me, but it creates a pleasant buzz.

“You need to put in an appearance,” I say.

I hate pushing him, and I normally don’t, but sometimes I worry he doesn’t live it up enough.

“Will’s been calling like crazy,” I point out, “and he even bugged me at work today. He says you need to ‘ride the ride while you can.’”

“I am,” he maintains and then he tightens his arms around me. “I just want to make music with you, and I want people to hear it and love it, but I don’t need to be bigger than this. I don’t need the hype. I’m happy.”

I caress his face. “Most people don’t get a chance to be a god,” I say. “Are you sure you’re not missing out? You won’t live forever, after all.”

“No, but my music can.”

He always has the perfect answer for everything. He’s right. He’s not missing anything. Would we be happier, sacrificing the time we have together to give it to others? No.

“And you and me in the lyrics,” he finishes. “That’s all that’s important, and I won’t tolerate any distractions. I’ve only got one shot to do this right, and that’s what I’m doing.”

I bring him in, kissing him. I love him so much.

But his words remind me of our favorite rapper, and I pull back, unable to resist teasing him. “Hey, ‘only one shot’ just like in Eminem’s ‘Lose Yourself.’”

And I start singing the song, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs.

He pushes my head back, dousing me under the shower as I squeal in laughter.

Hey, what did I say?





THE END





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Please turn the page to read Ryen’s letter to Delilah.





Dear Delilah,



My name is Ryen Trevarrow. We were friends in fourth grade.

I’m sure you don’t even remember me, but I remember you. In fact, you cross my mind quite a lot. And if you do remember me, then please keep reading, because there are a lot of things I’d like to say.

You’re under no obligation to listen, but I would be grateful.

By now, I’m sure your life—like mine—has changed a lot. Your memories of me—if you have any—could range from resentful to so ambiguous that I barely register on your radar anymore. Maybe you haven’t thought about me in years.

But just in case…I needed to do this. Maybe for you but especially for me. I have a lot of guilt, and I deserve it, but there are things that need to be said, and it’s long past time.

You see, the image is still in my head. You standing against the wall on the playground, alone because I wouldn’t be your friend any more. I can’t imagine what you were thinking that day and every day after, but I hope you know that what I did and what everyone else said or put you through was never your fault. It was mine, and you were simply there.

There’s a secret I want to share with you. I haven’t even told my best friend, Misha, because it was so embarrassing.