His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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........................................
NOAH
The late October air slices against my bare chest, a chill that soothes the sweaty heat radiating off my skin. Thamesbridge streets are running streets. Good, even sidewalks. A quiet neighbourhood. Fall leaves, red and orange, sprinkled around the lawns and roads, caught up in the air when the odd car putters by this Friday evening.
Day's running beside me, our long strides synced in the same rhythm of years running these streets together. His jaw is set, eyes fixed forward, a slow-moving storm brewing in the tight lines of his face.
Dayo Bello is angry. It's a simmering rage that he pushes into the pavement with every step. It's an acute, deeply buried feeling.
We don't talk about it; we never do. Instead, we run, and I just hope that one day, something gets better.
I glance at him, trying to gauge if he's ready to slow down, but he just pushes harder. I match his pace.
He's lankier, carrying less weight, able to run longer. But I'm stronger, more muscled, able to run faster. We manage to split the difference.
It's getting late, but he's not ready to head back yet.
It goes like this for another twenty or so minutes.
As Day rounds the corner toward home, his pace finally starts to ebb, so our steps slow.
We come to a stop near the house, chests heaving, hands on our knees as we catch our breath. There's the distant bark of a dog, a few late evening crickets, and a blue jay up in the nearest oak. I wait for him to speak, to maybe break the silence with whatever words he can find, but he just straightens, threading two hands into his damp hair.
"You're out of shape," he exhales, the words rough.
I nod my agreement, still too winded to speak. He recovers much faster than me, too.
Day leaves me at the bottom of the driveway and heads inside.
Then Maman, in a cream cable-knit sweater, sleeping Mabel on her hip, steps out of the house and makes her way toward me.
I straighten up, pulling in a few deeper breaths as they stop on the edge of the lawn.
Maman's expression, the hopeful tightening of her brow, the searching look of her light eyes, guts me. Without a word, she asks about him. Her sad, angry son. Did he speak about anything? Talk it out? Scream? Argue? Fight?
She readjusts sleepy Mabel on her hip, her little head in the crook of Maman's neck.
I shake my head. "Maybe next time."
Her smile is so hopeful, so laced with pain. "Good, you come inside. Clean up."
Good a plan as any.
After the run, the cool water of the shower feels like a baptism, washing away the sweat, the tightness in my chest, the screams of muscles pushed to their limits, Day's anger, and mine too.
