The Animators(76)

I put my head between my knees and smell. Okay, not so bad. Pee-dappled as opposed to pee-drenched. I scrub at the damp spot in my underwear, zip up.

Outside the door, Teddy leans against the wall, mouth puckered in concern. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No no,” I manage. “I’m—I’m on blood pressure meds that do some weird things when I, you know. Laugh and stuff.”

“That’s sad. You have a good laugh.” He takes hold of my arms, rubs them briskly. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Uh huh.”

The hallway is dark and narrow. We hear the TV blare from the next room and look at each other for a long moment before he leans in and presses his mouth on me, dry and firm. Holds it there. I nudge back, touch his jaw, his ears, the back of his head. We sink in and open up to the kiss, hotter, faster, his tongue slipping in. I feel him exhale and run his hands along the length of my back. The floor shifts. Our bodies collide. I feel him harden against me.

There’s shuffling nearby and we break apart. “Come on,” he says, and pulls me into his bedroom: more dark wood paneling, books and CDs everywhere, the warm, sweet smell of his clothes. We fall onto the bed, him on top of me, me on top of him, rolling. I run my hands over the stubble on his cheeks, hot and prickling.

He says, “Sharon.” Moves for the neck.

My entire body jolts.

Prestroke, my neck was kryptonite. There’s this curve below my ear, back toward the nape, a square inch of pure nerve wildly responsive to all manner of kisses soft and hard, licks, bites, tongue traces, and at the right time, breath. For the few unsuspecting men with whom I actually went to bed, it was a happy surprise, the fastest way to make me lose my pants. From kiss one, Teddy seems to know, working his mouth down from the earlobe, transitioning to licking, to sucking. The pants are lost, I wrap my legs around him. I arch into him. I am me again. I am myself, in my own body. I have been returned.

He rolls on top of me to unhook my bra, lips nipping at the edge of one cup, and I’m grinding into him when my left leg seizes. I shriek.

It’s my trouble leg. It stiffens up at least three times a day, falling asleep only to come alive with pain—it can’t keep up. Before my body went apeshit, I never realized how much I enjoyed sitting over the drafting table with my left leg tucked under me, curling my body into its coziest shape while I worked. No question of me sitting Indian-style ever again. One more unanticipated loss. In addition to a number of sexual positions I assume have been rendered obsolete.

The cramp tightens. I make a sound in the back of my throat.

Teddy looks up, flushed. “What’s wrong?”

“My leg.”

“Oh. Sorry, am I—”

“No, it’s—”

“Which one? What’s—”

“Sometimes it cramps up.”

I roll over and hum, holding the leg in both hands. I want to scream. This was going so well. Doubling up like this probably gives him an eyeful of my gut dough. Haggis McBaggis, gripping her gimp leg. An image to give legions of men reluctant chubbies. “It’ll be fine,” I say through my teeth. “Just gotta sonovawhorethishurts give it a minute to go down.”

“Can I do something?” He scoots to my side, starts brushing hair from my forehead.

I rock and hum. Wheeze, “Just gotta wait it out.”

“I could massage it. You think that might help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s try.” He shifts down, puts both hands above the knee, begins to knead, thumb and palms pressing circles, making a sssssshhhhhh noise. “Right there?”

The muscles start to loosen. “Yeah.”

His shirt has been unbuttoned and tugged out of his pants. His chest hair is coarse, darker than I expected. The cramp’s grip starts to fall away. I reach out to put my fingers in his hair. He looks up, smiles. “Better?”

“Better. Sorry about that.”

“A cramp once in a while’s nothing to worry about.” His hands move north. “That good?”

“Yes.”

I lean back and feel his hands work up, strong grip, palms hot. Feel his lips join in, the softest contact working its way up and up until they meet fabric, press. The fabric is taken away. I close my eyes. I feel myself part for him. I close my eyes and I hear him tell me my name.





THE HEART LIVES AND DIES IN


LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY


I wake up in a strange bed naked and my first thought is hospital. Panic rises in my throat. Oh God. It’s happened again.

Teddy rolls over and pulls me into him, muttering. Slides his hands down to cup my ass in a way I can only describe as polite, says, “Hey.” Kisses that spot on my neck that makes my limbs spasm. From deeper in the house I hear the unmistakable bangs and clips of the Super Nintendo, two-player Street Fighter, Mel cussing, “Uh oh, lookit that shit. That’s right, hussy.” Then the grunt of the aerial kick, the call that sounds like “Shoooore you can!” One of the boys glumly remarks, “Dude.”

There’s a thin line of daybreak glowing underneath the curtains. Teddy says something I can’t hear into my shoulder. I arch my back. He reaches inside me. I need to remember the way this feels. Your memories will fail you, I think, a flutter of sadness closing my throat. It will eventually disappear into its barest idea, an outline of itself. You have spent entire years knowing only the lack of what you are feeling right now. So feel this all you can. I turn and push him onto his back. Crane my head under the covers toward his hips, going lower and lower until I hear him gasp.