Come To Me

They had lain together for hours. Time and the outside world became immaterial hours ago, and was like that still. He planted his lips down all down her body. She lay quivering, moans caught in her throat. Neither of them wanted any of this to end.

**

It had been hours since Luka noticed the time. He still did not know what time it was but the sky had darkened. He had made love with Ceila all afternoon. She still lay in bed, anticipating his slightest touch. He came behind her and put his arm around her. Her hand rested on his face.

"I don't want you to leave, Luka," she whispered. "Stay here."

He did not speak. He simply let his lips touch hers.

**

It was 6:03 AM. Luka had stayed the whole night laying next to Ceila. A thin bed sheet barely covered her slender form. She turned on her back and cupped Luka's face in her hands.

"Luka, do you remember the time I told you about the minor car accident back home?"

He kissed her shoulder.

"I remember how your body may have looked," he whispered naughtily.

She playfully smacked him.

"No! You told me about your brother. Do you remember?"

Luka now lay his head on her chest. He let her fingers get tangled in his hair.

"Yes."

"Matja?" she asked.

Luka nodded.

"Yeah. He lives in Zagreb now with his wife and children. I barely see them."

"Oh, Luka," she breathed. "You should see them. I want to see them, too."

He looked up at her.

"Why are you talking about this now?"

Her fingers traced the bones of his face.

"Because I want everything about you."

**

The next night, they fell back in his apartment and kissed heavily, practically biting at each other's tongues. She wrapped her legs around his form. They frantically tried to rip at each other's clothes. Neither of them could move fast enough for the other. How ever the feat was accomplished, both now lay on Luka's bed, stripped bare of any garment and ready for each other.

**

Ceila threw her head back with such force that her long black hair whipped her shoulder blades. She gasped. Luka's thumb slid into her open mouth and she let herself wallow down to him once more.

**

The lights from outside shone only faintly in the confines of Luka's room. It was there that Ceila felt at ease. Luka lay drowsily in bed, his strong, firm body scarcely covered with a thin bed-sheet. Ceila enjoyed letting her hand glide over his body, itself beauty. Her head rested on his chest. Her fingers crawled along his breastbone and danced on his collarbone until she was a hair's breadth from the scar on his shoulder.

"Darling, how did you get that scar?"

He did not answer her with an explanation, only a warning.

"Don't touch my scar."

Ceila turned her head upright.

"Why?"

Luka gulped without looking at her.

"It hurts me," he answered.

She nestled her head into the hollow of his other shoulder.

"But it's a part of you. I love all the parts of you. I love you."

His angry eyes would stare up at the ceiling to avoid being cross with her. He didn't let his other lovers touch the scar. Why would he let her?

"I don't touch your scar," he returned defensively.

"I know," she said almost sadly. "I notice the things you don't touch."

She moved her hand to the scar and he grabbed it. She moved her lips to it and kissed it.

"There. Now every time you think of the scar, you'll think of my kissing it and it won't hurt so much."

He suppressed his discomfort and shut his eyes tightly.

It was true. The scar did not bother him so much after that.

**

If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow.

The sun was coming up. Luka and Ceila had spent all night together, barely moving a centimetre from one another. Luka could no longer try sleeping. Instead, he locked his eyes on the sleeping Ceila.

Again, he was transfixed by her body. At work, she wore the drab pink nurse's scrubs and tied her hair back in a bun. Now, her naked body was before him and he could see what her clothes and movements belied. He saw the scar on her knee (the scar he would not touch for fear it would offend). Luka saw that Ceila was losing weight, results of stress and a rigorous exercise plan (she was always on the move). Her ribs were like rolling skeletal hills over sculpted abdominal muscles. Her navel was pierced and appeared as unnatural as the tattoos she had on her arms. She marked herself, he supposed, to ward off contact of other skin. The symbols were like talisman for searching hands. In some respects, it was true. He was more interested in flawless flesh than the grinning woman in the sun or the burning Sacred Heart marked on strong ropey arms.

She lay on her back and, as she had done to him when marking his body, he danced his fingers along her sternum, up and down the ridge of her collar bone and her neck over her chin to her ribbon lips. She slept soundly, like a baby. Her eyes were shut. When they were just opened or were pensive, they became the softest blue. Her hair was tangled under her head. Black thick curls. It used to be blond when she was a child, she said. Now it was like black unrefined silk. Other lovers had earthen hair- darkest brown. From them grew resentment or children. There is wheat that grows from the blackest soil. Then she was organic, Luka thought, but so far grew only in intimacy.

**

When neither of them could wait to flee to their homes, Luka and Ceila fulfilled their impatient desires in hidden spaces.

An empty treatment room in the radiology wing served such a purpose. Ceila had already taken off her scrub shirt. Luka had his eyes fixed on hers. He pulled off her brassiere. And tugged away at her scrub pants. Ceila clawed at Luka's clothes. Her fingers, ever nimble, undid the buttons on his shirt one at a time.....

**

The elevator seemed big enough for their purposes. Luka slammed the emergency stop button and locked in an embrace with Ceila. She fell to her knees and tugged away at his belt buckle.

Five minutes later, they emerged from the elevator breathless, struggling for composure and hoping that their meddlesome co-workers were none the wiser.

**

For a change, they both had the day off. The night was spent in frantic love-making (as though the world would end and neither would be in each other's arms ever again). The morning would allow them the quiet time they craved just to talk. When Ceila rolled over in bed, her arm did not swing onto Luka. She was puzzled for a moment but when she heard muffled clutter from the kitchen, she grinned broadly. Luka- the sweetheart he was- was making her breakfast. Ceila sat up and placed some of Luka's clothes on (she could not readily find hers). She adjusted the clothing for the bagginess and stretched, letting her eyes wander.

Ceila began to be curious about what Luka had hidden away in his apartment. She knew he had a picture of a small boy with curiously indigo eyes on his bedside table and that in his wallet he had a picture of his late wife and child. Ceila did not mean to pry; she simply stumbled upon parts of his life. She did not want that. She told him she wanted everything about him. She supposed more time would have to pass between them. But she was impatient.

Ceila stood on a chair and reached for the box on the top shelf in Luka's bedroom closet. She put the box down on the floor and rummaged through it carefully. Old notebooks with Croatian notes scribbled in them. She noticed a faded red one tucked to the side. She peered through it. Even Luka's handwriting, (like her grandfather's), she thought, had an Old World gentility to it. A date was scribbled on the top. 91.6.29.

Zemlja je izdubina.....

"What are you doing?"

Ceila spun around. She nearly dropped the notebook. Her face pale, her mouth gaping, she looked at Luka. He did not appear to be angry so much as ashamed. His face was losing some of its olive colour. He grabbed the notebook from her. He lowered his head.

"It's mine..." he said softly.

"I didn't mean to pry, Luka," Ceila apologized. "I only wanted to see..."

Luka was pressed against the wall. He gripped the notebook tightly in his hand.

"What is it?" Ceila asked.

"It's nothing," he lied.

Ceila shook her head.

"No. I saw the word, "zemlja". Almost like in Polish- "ziemiia"- but...."

Luka held the notebook from her. She tried to reach for it.

"Please, Luka," she pleaded. "I only want to...."

His face bore a look of sad determination. He held back something from her unwillingly but it was something he wanted only for him. Eventually, Ceila's fingers no longer reached for the notebook Luka held away. She bowed her head.

"I'm sorry."

Luka touched her face in consolation.

"No. Don't be."

Ceila relaxed to Luka's touch and all was forgotten.

*

Author's note: this story has a line from "The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje