Vodka Espresso

24. firefighter

August, 2017

Dawn was breaking when Edgar's eyelids cracked open, possibly under the subconscious weight of being intently scrutinised. He found Ingrid pressed up against him. She lay on her side with her back to his chest, her knees pulled up at a right angle and the fingers of her carelessly overlapped arms clutching at the edge of the pillow.

Edgar rose on an elbow. Maybe it had been her hair tickling his nose. Or maybe Teddy's studious gaze had tripped some primitive security system which roused him from his slumber. Edgar cast a glance beyond Ingrid's body, where he expected to see the so-called therapist. Then he scoured the room and spotted Teddy cross-legged in Ingrid's chair, with a pencil poised above a paper on his knee.

"What are you doing?" Edgar croaked, squinting. Faint morning light filtered into the room.

"Sketching," Teddy whispered. "Couldn't help it."

"What?" Edgar sat up and yawned, not quite comprehending.

Teddy misunderstood his query. "You," he smiled. "You're beautiful."

"Me?"

A soft chuckle. "Yes. The two of you together in particular. Glad I got a rough sketch in before you woke up."

Edgar sauntered over and stared down at Teddy's lap. The sketch showed him and Ingrid, suspended on the blank page by themselves, spooning. He chanced a look at the desk behind Teddy and came across more drawings there, all of them in the same vein: outlined figures with no context.

"How long have you been up?" Edgar thought to ask.

"An hour, more or less. Will you be using the bathroom? I was thinking to go, but I need to shower first."

The question reminded Edgar of what had really shoved him into consciousness.

"Yeah, I need the toilet. I'll only be a moment."

While he was at it, Edgar washed his face, too, and brushed his teeth with the spare toothbrush he kept in Ingrid's bathroom cabinet. Almost as an afterthought, he wrapped himself up in her bathrobe on his way out.

Teddy was still sketching, a wistful smile spreading on his face when Ingrid stirred in her sleep. She curled up across the bed, then stretched and pulled a pillow to her chest. Teddy's hand moved quickly and Edgar stood peeking over his shoulder at the likeness emerging on the page.

"That'll do," Teddy muttered to himself. He swivelled around and laid the pencil and paper on the desk, picking up his clothes from the floor instead. "Don't worry," he told Edgar, "if those ever go on public display, your face won't be recognisable in them."

Somehow, Edgar trusted him.

Teddy didn't take long in the shower and when he came out, he caught Edgar staring at Ingrid, so tranquil and subdued in her sleep. Teddy joined him.

"It's great to see her sleep so peacefully," the artist-slash-therapist murmured, "she used to thrash with nightmares when we met."

Edgar didn't look away from the bed. "I can imagine. Frankly, knowing what she's been through, I'm surprised I never saw her agitated at night. But then again, erotic exertion is an effective tranquiliser in general."

"Consider yourself lucky, mate. It's a fucking heart-breaking sight." Teddy shook his head and turned to gather his sketches. "That woman is a world of pain and all I could do to help her was teach her how to live with it while still enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. It was very important for her to take back control over her own body." He clicked his tongue. "There was one thing I never managed to fix, though."