“Have I mentioned I don’t like her?” I asked.
“This may come as a surprise to you, but you are not the only one.”
On a particularly warm October evening, we took our plates of food outside and sat on a blanket in the grass, our beer bottles tipping over, and Graham laughing when a spider crawled across my garlic bread, causing me to scream and chuck it into one of the potted plants. He retrieved it and ate it (the bread) much to my horror.
It was nice to hear him laugh.
“See you in the morning,” I said a couple hours later as I started up the stairs to the third floor.
“Goodnight, Lior,” he said. But this time, instead of going to his room and quietly closing the door like he had for the past week and a half, he stood watching me from the doorway.
“You okay?” I asked.
He walked toward me and I descended the stairs and stood at the bottom, waiting. When he reached me, his eyes met mine and he wrapped his arms around me.
“Thank you,” he said.
I nodded, overwhelmed by his scent, the weight of his arms around me, and the feel of his body against mine.
He started to pull away and then stopped, staring down at me, his eyes moving over my face until they reached my lips.
He exhaled, gave a small shake of his head, and then kissed me.
My reaction was instantaneous, my entire body clenching with desire as his tongue filled my mouth and his erection pressed into my stomach. We were pulling at one another’s clothes until he was naked and I was wearing nothing but a sheer pink bra.
He moved me back onto the stairs and knelt between my legs, biting my nipples through the fabric of my bra and slipping his fingers inside me as I wrapped my hand around him.
“I need you,” he whispered.
I repeated what he’d said to me not so long ago.
“Have me,” I said, and then led him to the guest room.
He fell asleep shortly after and I gathered his clothes from the hallway and left them hanging over the chair in his room before grabbing my own and going upstairs to my bed. When I came down the next morning, he was sitting at the kitchen island, his phone in his hand.
“Brontë’s ashes are ready,” he said, his voice soft. “I can go get them anytime.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
He nodded.
The beautiful sea green urn Brontë came home in was placed on the mantle of Graham’s living room. On one side of it, propped against the wall, was an imprint of her paw in clay that had a small hole at the top, a white ribbon running through so it could be hung on a Christmas tree if desired. Her collar lay on the other side.
Graham stood staring at the display for a long moment before turning to take in the rest of the room, his gaze landing on the empty dog bed.
“Do you want me to take it?” I asked. “And the others?”
He sighed with his whole body, his eyes filling with tears as he shook his head.
“No,” he whispered. “I’d like them around. At least for a little while longer.”
I nodded.
“I think…” he started and then trailed off. “I think I’m going to go lay down for a while.”
“Do you want me to stay?” I asked. “Or do you need some time alone.”
He walked to where I was standing and wrapped his arms around me, squeezing me tightly to him, his body rising and falling with his breath. We stood like that for a long time, leaning into one another, our hearts beating together.
