“Good!” I feel the tree, which is bendy. With a firm push, I’m able to force it down, sending the branches over the side. “Would your one hand be enough to climb if you have this to grab?”
Hank pulls on the branches, and I steady the tree as he scrambles up to join me. When I can, I grab his elbow and pull him onto the flat ground, leaving us pressed close between the bush and more rocks.
I pluck a handful of violets. “We made it!” I say cheerfully.
Hank wipes rain off his face before he rolls off me. “This is an excellent find. With the haul we already collected, we should be set for the rest of the day.” He plucks a berry and pops it in his mouth, then plucks another for me. “Sweet salmonberry.”
I roll it across my lip. “I’m going to be so sad if this tastes like a fish.” When I take it into my mouth and bite into the juicy sweetness, though, it’s like tasting springtime.
“Fuck yeah.”
Hank and I eat a few berries and groan. When he licks his fingers off, I watch the way his tongue works, my attention captured by it.
He’s got some dirt and sticks on his arm, so I brush him off.
Hank grunts. “I feel a mess.” He pulls his shirt off, then drops a berry onto it. “What I wouldn’t do for a shave.”
“On the plus side, you look great with stubble,” I tell him. He’s quickly approaching a light beard, which grows in dark and thick. “You’re pulling off rugged.”
Hank scoffs and looks a little embarrassed. “I hate having stubble,” he says. “And it comes so damn fast.”
I rub my face. “My beard is slow,” I tell him. “But I’ve never really tried growing it out. This already matches my previous record length.”
The rain slows, barely a trickle, and Hank glances up.
I study his features, the square cut of his jaw and the curve of his cheeks. He’s quite handsome.
He swallows. When Hank squirms again, I decide to stop thinking about his face and turn my attention to plucking violets.
I angle our bodies carefully, but as Hank picks berries with one hand, our limbs and torsos rub together, brushing by.
“Everything feels kind of unreal to me,” I say.
Hank nods. “Agreed. My life and the civilized world seem infinitely far away, but we can’t be more than twenty miles from Seattle. Or, at least, I hope we aren’t.”
“Weird. Clients are probably emailing me about the commissions I owe them.” I blink a few times. “Email!” I say again to stress my point.
Hank lowers his voice. “I’m unavailable as I’m stranded on a rocky cliff, but trust that this email is received, and I will get back to you as soon as I’m able to reach the electric grid.”
I laugh and fix my briefs, which are twisted.
“What’s your illustration style like?” Hank asks as we harvest.
“Extremely detailed and immersive,” I say. “I spend a lot of time studying old illustration trends and techniques. It helps feed my imagination. Picture lots of action, story, vividcontrasts, and crisp lines. The type of thing you can look at for hours, because I know that some of my clients do.”
Hank nods. I can tell he’s still trying to decide what he thinks about my work, but it’s nice that he’s asking. Some people immediately dismiss it as frivolous.
“I’ll be curious to see some of it when we can,” Hank says. “It’s got to be fascinating, right? I don’t mean to suggest anything about your clients or about you. I have a decent grasp of kink and sexual politics, although that’s not my world. But seeing so many personal and, frankly, odd aspects of human sexuality. It must be… fascinating,” he says again.
I nod. “It is, totally. There’s something new every day. Most porn is the same toxic crap over and over. I get to offer something totally different. I celebrate all kinds of bodies and desires, and I don’t have to play into all of the old stuff.”
Hank pauses to rub his hand.
“Today is Sunday, right?” I ask. “What would you be doing today if you weren’t stranded here with me?”
He coughs out a laugh.
“What?”
