The Citrus Syndrome

27 ; shame

Shame

Bo

I try to empty my mind, to slip away into the abyss of subconscious pleasure. I close my eyes, trying to think of no one, recognize no one, be completely apart from everyone else and all their problems.

You and I are the only ones left, I think to myself, biting down on Cat's soft, downy shoulder. There's no one else.

She is beautiful, without a doubt. Her limbs are solid and cushioned, her arms strong around my neck. She has a milky white stomach with a tiny round bump of a belly below her ribcage.

She's sick, though. I can't forget that. I can see it in the grayness of her skin, in the unhealthy way her hip bones stick out below her waist. Her cheeks are more hollow and her eyes have started going pale.

There's something hot about it, though. The tragic beauty of her body. The way she seems to be deteriorating under my fingertips. I trace the top of her hip bone with my pinkie, feeling her shiver as I move my finger along her waist and then into the inside of her thigh.

"Bo," she whispers. "I hear something."

She's being paranoid. I wrap him around her head, covering her ears. "Stop worrying," I say.

Only, she really did hear something. By the time I hear it too, it's too late. My tongue is in Catherine's mouth, my hand is between her legs, and Wilson is standing in front of the bookcases, watching with crossed arms.

Cat scrambles to cover herself, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. I pull away, resisting the urge to stand in front of Cat and shield her from Wilson's disapproving glare. Instead, I yank my boxers back up and stare back at him.

He looks absolutely disgusted. "You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves," he spits.

"It's not what it looks like," Cat tries.

"How could it not be what it looks like?" Wilson shakes his head. "Bo, your girlfriend is dying downstairs. What are you doing here?"

Wilson, I know, has been in a committed marriage for something like eight years. He knows a thing or two about loyalty. I feel ashamed for a moment, thinking of Violet shivering alone in the basement, pale and crying. I should be there.

"Look," Wilson says. "I'm going to let you two get yourselves together, but I want you downstairs in no more than five minutes, okay?" He looks between the two of us and we nod. Then he turns on heel and walks away, practically leaving a steaming trail of anger behind him.

When he's gone, I turn to look at Catherine. She is quiet, looking away from me. Wilson got to her, I suppose. She's seen the error in her ways.

"He's wrong," I tell her.

"No, he's not." But she lets me scoot up behind her and massage her shoulders. "We're awful people."

"No we're not. I mean, c'mon Cat. We're going to die. It doesn't even matter what we do anymore."

She sighs, flinching away from me. "Put on your clothes," she says. "We need to get downstairs."

Sensing that she isn't going to give in, I say, "Fine." I pull my pants back on and straighten out my shirt. "Is my hair messed up?"

"Not really." Cat pats down some hair on the side of my head. "It should be fine." By this, I assume she means that Violet will not know what I have been doing. I feel a little bad about tricking her, but it's certainly better than tell her the truth.

I stand up, sighing. Cat remains on the ground. "Are you okay?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Still feeling a little shaky."

I hold out a hand which she takes. I wrap an arm around her waist to support her, and she's too unstable to push me away so she lets me tuck my other hand under her thigh and guide her along the corridors of bookcases.

"You have to let go of me when we get there," Cat says.

"Um, that's probably not a good idea." It isn't. If I loosen my hold on her at all, she goes careening in one direction or another. Even leaning on the shelves, she can hardly move forward. "You know, even this isn't such a good idea. Maybe I should carry you."

She shakes her head. "Please, Bo. I just . . . I don't want her to see you touching me. She'll know something's up."

I want to argue that Taya is not all that perceptive and, after all, has no reason to believe that Cat is cheating on her unless Wilson told her, which I doubt he did. I don't say that, though, because arguing with Cat is useless once she has made up her mind. Instead, I lift her into my arms keep walking.

"Bo! Put me down!" she hisses.

"Shh." I cradle her head against my chest, chuckling a little. Thank goodness Cat is so weak. If she was at full strength, I don't think I could take her. In fact, I'm barely strong enough to carry her at all. I grit my teeth and keep walking.

Cat's cheeks are still flushed and her lips are swollen. These are the only indication of what we have been doing. "What're you looking at?" she sighs.

"You lips," I say, leaving it at that.

She rolls her eyes. "Stop it." But she lets me lean in and kiss her one last time. Then again and again. I let her out of my arms, pressing her against the bookcase. I don't feel guilty. If I have to die, would I rather croak in the arms of a sobbing, bleeding bag of bones, or with my tongue down the throat of my boss whom I have wanted to fuck since I met her? Probably the latter. And who could blame me? Our actions no longer have a lasting effect; our deeds will die with us.

But Cat doesn't seem to follow the same thought process. She pulls away, trying to hold me back by my hair. "Not right now," she says. To my ears, it sounds like a promise to keep for later.