May 2011 Pt. II

It's raining when he pulls up to the curb, the entrance to her apartment building within sight just down the way. He puts the SUV into park, cuts the engine. She makes no move to get out. He's not sure what to do, what to expect, except maybe a slap across the face. He's been waiting for her to do it, to tell him, "I told you so, motherfucker."

He's not sure what's expected of him. He should go in with her, carry her duffle bag for her like a gentleman. But then what? Go inside her apartment? Ask if she wants him to stay the night? He's not sure where he stands now. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. They sit in the half-darkness, listening to the rain, watching ribbons of light and color streak down the windshield. He can't take it.

"Let's get some dinner, huh? What's good around here?"

But she ignores his question. "I was watching the news before I left Afghanistan. I didn't expect..." She shakes her head. "Is it weird that I found it sort of disgusting?"

"What?"

"The reaction here, the way people took to the streets, the way they...celebrated. I guess I didn't think we'd react like that."

"It's not weird," he tells her. "I know what you mean." She nods, shooting him a brief and grateful smile. It encourages him. He reaches across the console and takes her hand. She grips his fingers and it's a relief. It makes him want to spill his guts.

"I almost touched him," she says before he can speak. "I was standing over him and I just felt this need to lay my hands on his dead body and-and say something to him. God knows what. I didn't do it." She's toying with his fingers. He wonders if she realizes she's doing it. "I don't know how to explain what I was feeling in that moment. I've never been religious, I don't pray, I don't believe in any of that shit, I just..."

But it makes perfect sense to him. "You're the hunter." She waits for him to explain. "A lot of Native American and traditional hunting cultures believe there's a reciprocal relationship between the hunter and the hunted. The existence of the hunter is reliant on the prey. For sustenance, for meaning. For life. It's a sacred act. You were feeling it."

She's absorbing that. She'll probably tell him he's full of shit for suggesting any such thing, for spinning a metaphor out so far. Maybe he is. But what she does say, hollow and tired, is, "I hate feeling this way, Dan."

"How, sweetheart?"

She seems to search for the right word. "Adrift."

He lets go of a deep breath, absently running his thumb over her knuckles as he takes that in. Adrift. Good word. It strikes home. He's been feeling the same fucking way lately – ever since deciding he's going to leave the CIA. It's a recent development. It's one of the things he has to tell her. He tries again. "Maya honey-"

But he doesn't get far. Because she's lifting his hand to her mouth, kissing his hand gently. He can do nothing but watch, silenced. She rubs the soft, smooth skin of her cheek against his big, rough fingers. She runs his hand along her jaw and trails it down her fine neck, down to the V of her black sweater and lower, pressing his hand against her heavy round breast. Goddamn. He leans closer, feeling her, breathing her in deeply and murmuring her name, his thumb finding her nipple through her sweater. She moves his hand lower still, down to her lap, down to her thigh. He curses aloud when she presses his fingers hard between her legs, rubbing him there, eager. Their fingers curl together against her sex through her jeans, fighting the thick fabric. She mewls in frustration and he crashes into her, needing to kiss her now, unable to tell her about anything except his riotous need.


They fuck hard on her couch. She's astride, tits bouncing against his chest, pulling his hair and scarring his shoulders with her nails. He slams her hips down on his cock, fingers bruising her curves, her sweat on his tongue. It's sloppy and needy and mutually selfish and entirely satisfying, years poured out wordless and animal.

When he takes her to bed, he tries to say something else with his mouth tender between her legs, his hands languid on her skin, his body a slow moving wave deep inside her. Trying to say something softer and sweeter because he can't say it out loud. He wants her to say it. He's interrogating her, seeking confession, brutish tactics abandoned for gentle persuasion. When she's coming he watches for the words to fall from her lips, searches for them on her face.

But she twists her face away and her eyes are squeezed shut, keening and gasping and cursing, lost in her own drawn-out moment. He buries his face against her sweaty neck and empties himself out, collapsing heavy on her small body. He clings to her, ignores a gnawing of disappointment deep inside his guts.