Descending Star

BREAKING DAWN

Zoey and Ben watched nighttime fade into a sunless early morning shrouded by silver mist. From the puffy wicker chaise they could not see the parking lot below them, only the distant trees and the artificial rock wall, itself barely visible through the fog.

She had not moved, save periodic fidgeting, since she had curled up against his chest past midnight. At the time he had draped an arm over her shoulder and down to the small of her waist. His warm, comforting arm had not moved all night. Over the course of their long embrace, she had transported herself through innumerable manifestations of terror, over things that she would never unsee or unhear, and his abiding presence had dispersed them all, like so many dusty moths scattered into the night.

Their respiration systems had settled into a perfect synchrony. Their chests arose and fell together. All night they had watched the night's infinitesimal transformations, and breaking dawn had come as no surprise, naturally, most naturally, a welcome transition by which they became empowered to behold themselves. Not once had lips searched for each other; not once had fingers explored beneath hemlines; not once had their bodies searched for each other, for fruition with each other, like lovers, for they had achieved contentment effortlessly, as they were.

"Be honest," he whispered, without checking her eyes to see that she was awake, "you will miss this place."

She gave the proposition its due consideration decided, "Inconclusive. I will miss neither the wood, nor the fish. But I will be gone in two days, and I have yet to try pulled pork."

He did not labor at a pithy retort. With Zoey, he did not need the last say. He simply wrapped his arm about her body more tightly and put an arm across her stomach, for good measure. She snuggled into him and watched blocks of mist meander past their view like landborne clouds.

Her fingers inadvertently found a long scar beneath his shoulderblade, raw and youthful tissue fresh upon his body. She traced a finger upon the scar tenuously, curiously, and he writhed. Her hand froze.

"Tickles," he explained.

She smiled thinly and thought to herself that they had been soulmates since they were five, yet she didn't know a single one of his ticklish places, apart from this rip across his body, a recent and unwelcome addition. He did not know her ticklish places, either. She did not know how to invite him to explore. All night they had slept together– no, in fact they had lain together fully awake– yet neither one had explored the other. They had snuggled together instead, in perfect peace and contentment, better and superior to exploration in so many ways, and yet somehow also not.

Jacob, over the course of the past six hours, would have methodically discovered and explored each and every chink in her armor. Ben had found none of them. But more troubling, she had not found one of his. She felt neither slighted nor short-changed, for that lack. They had been so perfect together last night that the fevered rituals of exploratory courtship had been obviated. They had commenced their repose complete in themselves, and complete together.

So, why did she feel, in some indefinable capacity, neglected?

"Thank you for staying with me last night, Ben," she said.

"Please, Zoey. Unnecessary."

Yes, she thought to herself, that was it. That was the crux.

She tried again to make her point. "Last night was perfect," she whispered, "and I can't imagine a single change that would improve it, so please don't take this the wrong way"–

He put a finger to her lips and finished, "But last night felt like you slept with your brother?"

She stared at him, utterly astonished, and erupted into giggles.