Our Infinite Sadness

Declare

"What are we going to do with each other?" Ben asked. She knew his intention. He was effectively asking, How can it go on like this?

She closed her eyes, finally, and quietly asked, "Could you hand me the sweater?"

As he reached for the scattered article, his stomach growled.

She chuckled, pulling Emilia's bulky peach sweater over herself. She also had a yellow blouse somewhere, and khaki cargo pants, but apparently the sweater sufficed. She said, "The first thing we are going to do with each other is get you fed and watered. You're starving and dehydrated."

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"Bullshit."

He chuckled with amused shock. She rarely ever swore, and this invective from her lips sounded pithy, snarky and uncharacteristic, all at once.

"Wouldn't it be an ironic form of cosmic justice," she went on. "It's now literally impossible for me to even think about drinking blood from your neck, but I'm sucking the life out of you from the other end."

"You don't hear me complaining."

"Benjamin David Swan, you need to recharge."

He stood up abruptly for clothes and staggered, woozy.

She was up in a flash, and she caught him. She fussed over him a bit, which felt nice. "Really, Ben, truly, you're worn out, and you're hungry. You need to eat."

She handed him a pair of corduroy pants, a clean t-shirt, and a pull-over, and he dutifully pried himself into them. "Well, I'm not arguing that I could use some dinner, and we ought to be getting a move on; Charlie's gonna be home soon."

She looked at him strangely. "Ben, what time do you think it is?"

He shrugged. Four o'clock, five o'clock; Charlie could be headed for the front porch this moment. He honestly didn't care.

She said, "It's ten-thirty in the morning."

Whoa. With huge eyes he said, "Uhh... okay. Either you have to leave"— her face fell— "or we have to get the hell out of this bedroom. 'Cause if we get sucked into round five, I'm going to do something incredibly rash, and you'll be totally useless at stopping me."

Her frown turned into a happy grin. "Ever the sensible one. You're right, I'm putty in your hands. No fear; I'll work up a plan. But first, bathroom. Human biology. It's been hours. And I'll meet you in the kitchen."

He took his time in the bathroom. He needed to make himself presentable, not so much to Edythe herself, since for whatever reason she found him "delicious" as is, but he would see Charlie sooner or later, at the very least. So he took another shower, and while he toweled off, he also opened a couple windows to create a draft, since the cloying smell of sex in his bedroom was overpowering. He also neatly folded Edythe's borrowed khaki pants and the sun-yellow blouse. With chagrin he realized she was downstairs wearing nothing but the sweater. And it was only ten-thirty. Why did he even bother taking a shower?

When he came down to the kitchen, she was leaning against the counter, looking very at home.

The bulky peach sweater molded around the hillocks of her chest and reached down almost far enough to cover her crotch. At this moment her legs were closed, not much for concealment given the wide gap between her slender thighs, but she was angled a bit in profile. That demure attitude couldn't possibly last.

He tried to make light of the many challenges set before him and tore his eyes from her body, by going to the cupboard for a box of cereal.

She returned to the chair she'd sat in last night and watched as he poured milk into the bowl and grabbed a spoon. He joined her at the table and silently appreciated her curious scrutiny, which gave him liberty to study her transformed eyes. He wondered if her eyes would remain blue forevermore, or if they would shift back to gold and black again.