Gift from Iris

From the back, she didn't look pregnant at all. Then she turned on profile and her baby bump announced to the blue skies, to the blue green waters of where she chose to go to wet her feet and celebrate her year with this man that she loved that she was indeed going to have a baby soon.

In the cooler mornings, they ran from the hotel's free-standing bungalow to swim in the ocean. In the evenings, they swam in the natural pools, under perfect blue skies, white puffy clouds, with gorgeous swimsuits and with just their happiness.

How could she be happier? She couldn't. How could she look prettier? She couldn't. Didn't he say that? Her white bathing suit made the lusciousness of her brown arms and long brown legs stand out, smooth, delicious to look at, stirring to touch. They walked along the shore, holding hands with the sun hitting the striking whiteness of her bathing suit—sexy, a one piece, with a plunge in the back, but showing lots of leg and cleavage. Her body glistened with happiness and sunscreen. His tall pale body glistened too. She made sure of that. Then, she watched him in his red trunks, as he guided her into the water. Sand still under their feet, they walked out pass where the water and beach met. He took her by the waist and stretched out with her, she with a leg between his as he swam. It looked as if they were enjoying the water, their arms and legs in a coordinated motion of kicking and gliding through everything she had wanted her morning swim to be, the warm waters and the arms and legs, the torso of her husband.

It had occurred to them that they had avoided the cruise ship crowds of noise, shopping bags, the clicking of cameras, for this lonely but lovely and peaceful turquoise beach, the sand, soft and white, pleasuring bare feet when they strolled out to the water's edge. It had been a while since she swam and she was sleeker then, younger, more confident of her dive into the water, of her strokes, of her thoughtful but pleasing control of her body's glide into a good swim. He had taken her hand and she had followed, sensing a combination of her desires for the water, the swim with him, but also her trepidation in the years that she had gone without a swim in a pool, let alone in the ocean. They had been kids the last time he pulled her into the water, but then as now, he had coaxed her, gently reminding her of her big confidence, and step by step she had gone into the water with him.

Her legs kicked in that gentle backstroke that he taught her when they were eleven, when he was sad, homeless, motherless, fatherless, when he felt his heart flutter for the first time since his mother's death, amazed that his heart could still come alive, as he swam with her in the pool at the YMCA; maybe a debt paid to her dad, since he had forced Barry to sink or swim by throwing him in the deep end of the pool. It was why Barry gently coaxed Iris in during one of the lessons. She hated to get in the water, but Barry suspected she hated getting her hair wet, hated what the chlorine did to it. She went home almost in tears washing and deep conditioning her hair, as if she were exorcising the chlorine out of it, and in the process, her pool experience. Next lesson came around and Iris found a woman's swimming cap left on her bed. She had fun that day at the Y, and made progress with her swimming. Walking out of the pool with him, she almost kissed him, at least, he felt it, felt her arms tentatively but gratefully go around his waist, but she chickened out with a change of mind and her lips detoured to his cheek instead of closer to his mouth. They were both flushing up coming out of the pool from the near miss of her kiss. Caressing her swim cap still on her head, she said, "I look like I just won the gold," And he watched her as she went to the girls' side to shower. And as she disappeared into the stalls, he was thinking that maybe he had won gold too.

Her backstroke was still beautiful, the memories surrounding it impossible to keep away. They were swimming back to the shore. Iris stopped to splash at Barry, but caught his smile, his surprised laugh, his green eyes and the amber in them bright, competing with the sun for her attention. They splashed on each other, then he gently took her by the waist, her arm went around his neck and she kissed him while he guided her with his long legs to where they could stand up. They took their time getting to the dry sand, and in the process, the sun kissed them both. Their sunscreen, her hat, their sunglasses were in sight as they came out of the water ready for towels, for the shade umbrella, for the picnic beach lunch that she had ordered for them from the hotel's five-star kitchen. Their mornings were happily consumed with this ritual.

Nights, he drank champagne and she drank ginger ale while they had their private dinners on the terrace and they talked of old times. It was as if they were compelled to, because so much of their past went unsaid but not unfelt. So, every now and then they confessed one to the other, to connect to the girl with feelings but no words for those feelings, to reach out to the boy who loved harder than his courage let him express, much less announce. Now, as adults, every now and then, they would say, sometimes out of nowhere, "Do you remember that time…? Or, 'This is how I really felt…."

He surprised her the first evening of their vacation letting her know he had consumed almost all of the volumes of her Christmas present to him with what he titled with a broad smile, her "I Love You, Barry Allen" journals. She didn't title them that, but she might as well have, they so felt like her big love letter to him. Finally. Her love letter by just describing and recollecting the things that he did to make her and her dad laugh, make them both happy, and in spite of everything that had happened to him, he wanted to stay with them and live in their house. In spite of everything.

After their dinners, they usually took a swim, but this night, their first night at the resort, they were going dancing in the hotel's ballroom. But before they did, Barry sat on the edge of the tub while Iris relaxed in it, soaking in hot sudsy water and feeling good in fragrant bubbles.

"… then he took my hand and showed me how to hold the bowling ball, how to grab it with my fingers just so… how to move to the lane, how to throw the ball, and my score moved ahead of his with the strike and he jumped for joy, saying 'Yayy!' He was so tall even then… When his feet finally hit the ground, he hugged me. It was one of our first connections as teens. We both saw it in our eyes, in our looks at one another, in our fingers, our hands that grabbed each other after my triumphant strike. Glad to write it out now: he had the prettiest look."

He had remembered the journal entries perfectly and shared some as he ran the sudsy wash cloth over Iris's back, she sitting up straight and closing her eyes to his recitals and to his scrubbing deeper, running the wash cloth down her back, at the beginnings of her curves, to her round hips, to her perfect booty. She lay back and he doused her with the now warm sudsy bath water, streaming from the wash cloth, her eyes still closed, his hands moving down, washing the round mounds that were her breasts, making her nipples stand hard, then the gentle circles traveling around her belly and the baby that she carried for the both of them. Barry said, "The least I can do is give the little boy a bath."

She opened her eyes and looked up. "Oh? A boy?"

He smiled. "I don't know, Iris. Maybe it's a girl."

Iris was quiet, slowly sitting up and he laughed. "I don't know." And that was because he didn't know. Neither of them knew. It was Dr. Snow's secret at their insistence. All they knew was that she wanted his child and he wanted her child, and the child was healthy and, girl or boy, the child would run with him. They both accepted that.

"… and then he came home with the 'Yes! I got in!' I loved watching his happy face. Vindication of how smart he was. The M.I.T. program opened his eyes to his genius."

Standing in front of the vanity mirror, and thinking of the passage he had recited, she said, "I was happy and afraid, but much happier than afraid. That's why I included it."

"Why afraid?" he asked, straightening his bow tie, then running his fingers atop his short coiffed haircut.

She was at the vanity beside him, attempting to fasten her gown at the back. Barry turned and helped her. "I was afraid you would meet some genius pretty girl that would take you away from me, and probably from Central City."

"Impossible," he said. They both looked at their mirror's reflection. She wore her hair up, freshly done. She wore her make up for the first time in months. She wore his hair pin present, with her birthday gemstone, a pearl set in a half cluster of diamonds, one of his Christmas presents to her. It was pinned just so, catching an abundance of freshly coiffed curls. The pearl caught her eye as the diamonds sparkled. She touched it and smiled at him through the mirror. "Thank you for this lovely hair pin. Not too many girls still wear these. Thanks for noticing my small things."

He said standing up straight and handsome, "You're welcome."

The ballroom was perfect for Barry and Iris to get lost in, and also in which to find themselves. They were lost in each other's arms, lost in the warmth of each other's eyes; lost in their sweet reveries and what the night promised them, what their lives together promised them; the night, a metaphor for them and who they were determined to become. They found themselves in their dance, as they were dancing. They found themselves in the step out onto the gardens and got lost in their fragrances. They smiled when people passed them with their own smiles, or stopped them to tell them that they were a beautiful couple, and to ask if they were newlyweds, just married. "It's our one year's wedding anniversary," they proudly took turns saying, to "Wow, and you still have the glow of 'Just Married' on you." Sometimes someone would ask 'When are you due?' and one of them would answer, 'Soon, in a few months.'

But the music called them and they went back inside, to the ballroom. Her body, her belly felt good pressed into him. He hugged her up on the dance floor, not getting enough of her fragrance, she smelled so good to him, and he wondered if it were a new scent, a brand-new perfume, or if it was just his lovely flower Iris, with a new fragrance of her own for him to desire. His head dropped some, to her neck and he couldn't help but kiss it, it seemingly offered to him, her head leaning as if to expose her neck to his lips, to his eager mouth. He kissed her while they danced, and felt her lips on him, at his throat, her favorite spot and it was amazing because they both wondered if they created a scandal making out on the dance floor, but they didn't care. These moments with Barry Iris would never second guess, would never hold back, would never say 'I wanted to' again, but didn't. She would never say those words when she thought of Barry Allen, and he would kiss her and hold her when he wanted to, as long as she wanted him to.

The evening was exciting, but they were glad to be back at the bungalow. Barry undid his bow tie, took off his dinner jacket, and turned on the music. He stepped out onto the terrace, enjoying the music and the cool breeze. Iris came out to the terrace after changing into a soft, cool cotton gown, reminiscent to Barry of the gown she left at Eddie's and that Eddie had returned. Iris handed him his drink while holding her own glass of water and he took her in his arms and kissed her, and said, "Happy anniversary, baby." And she said, "Happy anniversary, Barry." And while they moved slowly to the music on the terrace, enjoying the cool breeze, Barry whispered in Iris's ear:

"… and that's how he learned how to dance. With me. I taught him, but little did he know I was so enjoying how he learned how to hold a girl. So gently, with such care. His arms felt so good. I almost forgot I was teaching him. The song and everything had stopped. He was so sweet. He coaxed me out of my closed eye heaven, and thanked me for the dance lesson."

His mouth came away from her ear, they stopped dancing, and they watched each other for a few moments. A little bit of her lip turned up into a faint smile. Then he took her glass and put their glasses on the table and he pulled her to him for a squeezy hug. He said, "I love holding you so much, Iris."

She said, "I love being in your arms." And she succumbed to Barry's big hugs. She stayed in his arms they both just standing for awhile, swaying really, to the music, to the night, to the fact that their anniversary meant that they had had lovely sex for over a year; continuous sex; sometimes unrelenting sex. He took her hand and as he sat down, she sat in his lap. They kissed. He loved taking her bottom lip between his. Their mouths opened and they slowly exchanged darting tongues, purposeful mouths, opening the lips from the other, the heat from each other's touch. His head moved to the opening of her gown and he lay on her breasts, inhaling Iris's perfume, and Iris. "So lovely," he whispered, really talking to himself. He raised his head and kissed her breasts, soft kisses falling, slowly, as she moaned in approval, her head moving back slightly. He unbuttoned the rest of her gown and gathered her breasts in his hands and kissed them, firm and velvet to the touch, now his mouth traveling to and taking turns with her nipples, she enjoying the way he played with them, sucked them, his mouth, his tongue having their way with them. She brought her head to the side of his face and she whispered, "I love you so much, Barry." Those were her words when she was overwhelmed with loving him and the beautiful, the satisfying way that he returned his love. She said, in an amazing non sequitur, "I wanted something like this to happen on prom night."

She caught him off guard with that one and heard his faint chuckle, muffled in her neck. Then he raised his head and said, "I remember prom night. And you did too. I love your recollection of it."

Her eyes brightened in their private night out on the terrace. She said, "You mean you remembered word for word my entry in the journal on our prom night." Her eyes widened, but she was excited.

He chuckled again, but he couldn't get rid of the sexiness in his voice, always deeper than usual when he anticipated being with Iris. He said, "Can I just recite a little?"

"How do you keep pages and pages of words in your head?"

He said, "I don't know, just that if it's important and I want to hold on to it, I'll remember it."

But she knew that, faintly smiling to herself. She closed up her opened gown, then laid her head on his shoulder and her arms went around his waist and she said, "Okay."

He said:

On prom night Barry looked so handsome in his tuxedo and bow tie. I wonder if I'll ever see him dressed up like that again. I loved that he paid me so much attention, dancing the first and last dances and almost all of the other dances in between. (Haha, I'm smiling as I write this), but he smiled all that night. He was even happy when we went to see his dad later that night. I was happy because he asked me to go with him. He was in such the right frame of mind to see his dad. And they must have felt sorry for us, two dressed up kids wanting to visit the prominent doctor (Plus, my dad sort of directed (illegally?) that 'if the boy comes, let him see his dad.' And he and Mr. Allen had a fine talk. They even laughed some. Before their time ended, I thought it was sweet of both of them to include me in some of the conversation.

That night, Barry was like Cinderella; even the guys knew that he was pretty. Plus, my dad's car did not turn into a pumpkin and Barry got to drive me to and from the prom. I write this in the journal because we had such fun sitting out in my dad's car when we finally got home. We just sat and talked in the car. I so wanted to kiss him and say, 'Barry, let's have real sex.' But I knew if one of us asked the other, it would expose our years' long secret of wanting each other, then what would we do? And sometimes I thought that maybe Barry didn't want to have sex with me.

Everyone knew the deal between me and him, so it wouldn't shock anyone. We two were the only ones who seemed to not have a clue. God, I wish I was like Becky Cooper then. I don't mean overly smart and geeky like her, but she just has a forward-moving or impulsive glitch like the machine that she can be, but only where Barry was concerned. Or, in high school, Barry just liked having sex with her. I write this in the journal because he had such fun with me on prom night when he could have asked Becky. But like I've already stated, everyone could see the writing on the wall but us. Still, he was cute that night. And happy. I write this in this journal because I can still remember his smile.

"Wow, Barry." Iris kissed her husband on his cheek.

"Yeah, I remember prom night," he said. "One of my best nights. It was rare that I had you and my dad in the same room after my mom died."

She wrapped her arms around Barry's neck. His arms went around her waist and he pulled her to him, then she felt his hands moving up and down her back. He brought his hands to her face. He kissed her. She still sat on his lap, not wanting to move, loving and taking in his presence, especially under their brilliant anniversary moonlight. Finally,

Barry said, "I want to get naked. Let's go to bed."

Sexy Sex

Were they going to ever get in bed and not think it was an opportunity to have sex?

Maybe someday, but for that night, Barry sat against the headboard, his legs sprawled, his arms around Iris's waist, accommodating her belly, as she sat on him with her arms wrapped around his neck. She loved sitting on him recently and feeling him way up inside of her where all her pleasure waited for his hard erection. She was hot and free and kissed him wherever her mouth fell. The ride was fun and sexy and they were out in the open about how they enjoyed each other's bodies, just for the fun sex of it, for the climaxes, for the uncontrollable spasms in her crotch, in her vaginal walls, shamelessly wet, panting breath, his penis hard and he asking 'Is it good, Iris? Is it good, Baby?' And she would give him her answer with a squeeze of her thighs hugging the outside of his thighs, her crotch grinding in his groin. "Yeah," she would say, breathless sometimes, feeling ectasy in the breaths she took with each of his thrusts upward as her bottom came down to sit in joy in his crotch, each time; they would ride each other just for the pleasure.

Barry lifted up Iris some, then gently rolled her on her side on the bed, then put her on her back. She accepted him on top of her and between her legs and said, "Our baby knows we have sex on the brain and he's not worried," but Barry offset his weight, giving a lot of power to his thighs and hips with his thrusting into Iris as he closed his eyes and enclosed her in his embrace. Her arms went around his back, her hands went up to the nape of his neck, grabbing his hair and she enjoying it all, her face in his shoulder, her mouth leaving kisses all over it, his shoulder her sexy comfort zone. Their desire for each other intensified two Novembers ago, the first day of November to be exact, when she married Eddie Thawne on that day, but ran off literally minutes later to be with Barry Allen. She lost herself in Barry's love but also in his sex on that night, and Barry finally penetrating more than Iris's heart, or her gentle soul, but her flesh. It had been an intense desire growing for years in the couple who thought they could only look but never touch, but touch they did; and they hadn't stopped.

That morning, Barry rolled on top of Iris and asked, "Why do I want to fuck you right now?"

She grinned, the sleep leaving her. "Because you do."

And she was right. They had sex a lot. At first, they joked and said they were making up for lost time, but that seemed to be the truth. This was their first-year wedding anniversary and they had been together for a little more than a year, but they had soft sweet continuous sex with a vengeance, and everywhere. Later that night they lay together huddled up and counting the places where they had christened it with sex.

"The cabin, of course," Iris started off the counting.

"My room at your dad's house when we came back from our honeymoon," Barry said and Iris laughed. "Babe, see, that was our honeymoon. Finally, you're admitting it."

"I felt bad, because of Eddie," Barry said.

Iris gave him a quick look see. "Did you?"

"Well, no," Barry confessed.

"I didn't think so, for all the condoms you went through," Iris said.

Barry thought of the condoms, smiling, saying, "Yeah," but seemed to snap out of the reverie and said, "Well, of course our loft," Barry said.

"And everywhere there," Iris said, so let's not try counting. You're supposed to make love to your husband all over your own house."

"But let's make a list."

"Our bed, the sofa, on the floor in front of the fireplace," Iris started.

"The bed in our guest room," Barry said. "Remember we got off track when we were cleaning the room for my dad and Mary Alice?"

Iris grinned. "Yeah. How did we get so far off track? We both lay down to see if the mattress was comfortable enough." Barry chuckled. "Yes, it felt good. And so did the mattress."

"The window bench in our bedroom," Iris said.

"Don't forget the one in the dining room," Barry included.

"The little foyer sofa, Bear. I think about your long legs jutting out every time I walk pass it, or sit on it, or look at it. It just reminds me…." Barry kissed her, then squeezed her up in his arms. "Thanks, Iris. We do have sex, don't we?"

Iris giggled. "How about in your lab at CCPD?"

"I was hoping you'd forget about that little escapade. It was so breaking the rules."

"Barry, your desk is cold as ice and my ass was—"

"Hot. You warmed it up."

"First, we were having lunch, then I was sitting on your desk with you standing between my legs, then my panties came off, and I was lying flat on my back on your desk, my legs wrapped around you during lunch time, almost flattening our Reubens."

"That was so wrong," Barry said.

"That was so right," Iris said. "I never saw your desk the same again."

Barry said, "Yeah, me either." sounding proud. "One of the best workdays I ever had," Barry admitted.

"How about your love notes that the Flash slipped in CCPN?"

"They don't count."

"Even if a few got me wet?"

"Yeah? Those counted," and they chuckled, then Barry hugged up his wife some more and said out loud what had been in their hearts, "We don't have to ever lament lost time. We're twenty-seven. We have decades of lovemaking in front of us, Iris."

"I know you're right, Barry. It's just…." and Iris shrugged as if she didn't know why she felt sad that she couldn't talk about them having sex at age sixteen, but she got comfortable in Barry's arms, thankful for him, because he wasn't promised to her, she had no rights to him, even though she felt they now had rights to each other. Barry said, "You were a smart girl not to give me those condoms when we were sixteen, because we weren't ready. Listen to yourself:

I was so angry with him that he had locked himself out of the house because I knew where he was coming from, from Becky Cooper's house. I was really going to give him a piece of my mind, I was angry and jealous, but when he walked through the door, he stopped in the foyer and watched me, and I let him. I just had to. He made me notice his countenance, with kind of an edge to it, not harsh, just different. His eyes were opened, or had been opened; his glare was straight, with something new in his eyes. He looked more like a man. Why did he look at me like that, watch me the way he did? I write this in the journal because, even though it wasn't with me, Barry Allen had had sex, and even though he wasn't a man, he wasn't a boy. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. He looked happy. He was calm and peaceful with his arms to his sides. It didn't matter that I thought I was going to lose him to Becky Cooper. Barry Allen was happy, stood in front of me with a certain peace, a certain knowledge. I don't know if he knew that I had guessed. We never talked about it, the way we never talked about a lot of things back then. He watched me longer still, then quietly he said, "Good night, Iris." And he slowly took the stairs.

"Oh, Barry, I forgot about that entry, but I just had to record what I thought was your first time. Your face was beautiful with the knowledge and I couldn't deny it."

Barry still held her. "Thanks for reading me so well. Thanks for knowing me. Even though I remember my first time, I don't know if what you described was my first time. I do remember that I had locked myself out and you opened the door for me, but that's all."

"But, Barry, you have a photographic memory of things important to you."

He just said, "Yeah," after Iris's last statement, and they got comfortable in each other's arms and fell asleep.

It was two a.m. in the morning and Barry reached for his phone. Phone calls on their holiday were prohibited unless it was a break glass situation. It was the persistent ringing that unnerved him. Iris raised her head from off his chest, totally tired from sex with Barry. He showed her the number. She said, "Is that… Eddie?"

"I think so," Barry said.

"Babe, what on earth could he want?" and her head went back down on his chest. "I need my rest, because I'm coming for you in the morning, Bear. Just rest up." Why did they both giggle, as tired as they were? Then Barry remembered the phone and answered it. "Eddie, it's two a.m. where I am. What do you want?"

"Where you are? You mean you and Iris."

"What do you want? Or I'm hanging up."

"I just want you to tell Iris I said thanks for keeping my mother out of her story. It's a pretty big feature story, by the way. People are still talking about it. The Hayworth's are happy, my mother is relieved, and happy. She has a gift for Iris... and… Chambers promised to give back the money he stole, but his reputation is shot…. and….."

Barry didn't mean to but he yawned. Iris was drifting back to sleep. "I'll tell Iris when she gets up. But like I said, it's two a.m., so…."

"Babe, hang up," Iris said from out of her drifting sleep.

Then the line went quiet and it was such an odd silence between the two guys. Suddenly, they remembered their history. Why wouldn't Eddie hang up? Why wouldn't Barry?

Iris said, "Barry turn off your phone. Tell Eddie he can talk to me directly if he has anything he wants to say to me, but I don't want to talk to him right now."

It was obvious that Eddie heard. He said, "Just tell Iris that I'm grateful."

"You heard her. You can call her and tell her yourself. But not now."

"You son of a bitch, I don't want to talk to your wife. Just tell Iris I said thanks." Then Eddie hung up.

A few hours later, the sun was up and warning them not to waste their vacation, not to ignore the island's beautiful early morning. Barry had bought the VIP package and a five-star breakfast awaited them at the hotel's dining room. Suddenly Barry rolled on top of Iris and asked, "Why do I want to fuck you right now?"

She grinned, coming out of her sleep. "Because you do."

Romantic Interlude

In the middle of their vacation, it occurred to them that there existed a quaint little village not too far from the hotel and their bungalow, so they rented a private car and drove into the village. They walked through the town with this familiar sense of place, as if they had visited before. But of course, they had not. It only reminded them of the town on the outskirts of his dad's cabin. It was that, Barry felt, eyeing and not taking his eyes off of Iris as he watched her in her familiar plump butt twist, which still riled him up even though she was almost six months pregnant, watching her in her jean shorts as she inspected the outdoor shops and its merchandise. Her crisp white shirt gently hugged her belly and she stood square and looked comfortable in her white sneakers. She smiled. "Do you like this?" It was a hat. She tried it on. He said, "You look beautiful." She said, "Of course you would say that. You always say that."

He said, "It's always true."

She stopped to watch her husband in tank top, shoulders glistening with sunscreen, painter's shorts and sneakers, and said, "You look good too."

And so did the village. It was an eclectic little town of local people, long-time residents, tourists, and vacationing students looking for the 'authentic experience;' real estate developers, newlyweds, or like Barry and Iris, still in their newlywed phase and celebrating it.

Barry was at the counter in the carnival, a little island mom and pop venture. He was going to win two teddy bears he spotted amongst the stuffed toys on the shelf for the most important people in his life—Iris and their baby. He refrained from certain powers and was all Barry Allen, forensic scientist because of the principle of the act, the truthfulness in his aim and steadiness of his arm, plus the accuracy of his eye, and his handicap of the rifle's bent eyepiece, and the shoot. After he pulled the trigger and hit the target, Iris was jumping up and down with her pregnant self, saying, "Yayy! You won! My Bear!" Whom she meant 'Barry.' And he stood there and pointed to the two teddy bears.

Eventually, they sat down to lunch in the town to a delicious fried fish salad and a fresh mango drink, no alcohol for either one. After which, they were getting antsy for why they were really on the island, for swimming and making love, so each with a teddy bear they were on their way to the car for the drive back, but was stopped by someone with a drawing in hand. He said, "Sir?" Barry stopped and turned around, put the teddy bear under his arm and accepted the painting and smiled and offered to pay who was probably a young student but the student said, "No, it was a pleasure to look at her for an hour to paint this. That is my pay. Plus, it's homework. I have to give it to the subject and he or she has to like it," he admitted. "I hope you like it."

"We like it," Iris said."

He shook his head in agreement. But I can't take money for it." And the young man ran away and Barry and Iris glancing over their teddy bears looked closer at the painting. It was Iris in a big smile, her head tilting back, laughing at something probably one of Barry's corny jokes because her eyes were bright and her smile was more than happy. It was a watercolor. It was sensuous. "Pretty good," Iris said.

"I told you, Iris. You're beautiful." Iris took his teddy bear and he opened the car door for her. She got in and leaned to his side and unlocked the door for him. He said, "Thank you, Iris."

"My pleasure." And she moved to Barry's side, the teddy bears between them.

He said, "What?"

She threw the teddy bears in the back seat. She inched over to him. He grinned and took the watercolor from her hand and also placed it in the back seat.

"Are you going to do what I think you're going to do?" He had this wicked mouth, daring her because he believed his sweet Iris would never—and they had never done it in a car until he felt her hand in his crotch and grabbed a certain member that was getting hard because of her innocent smile.… "Oh, Iris," he said to her greedy hand and her direct look at him. As it grew and hardened her mouth went to his throat. Then he felt her tongue, hot, circling his throat. He said, "Oh, Iris, how am I going to drive?"

"Who said anything about driving?"

He pulled over, off of the road and parked in tall flowering plants of purples, reds, pinks, yellows—genus unknown to Barry, just that they were beautiful and he would forever associate Iris's mouth, his phallus, and tall Caribbean plants hiding them as he moaned and let his guard down for Iris's wet adventurous tongue, her beautiful kisses up and down his shaft.

For years we had given each other mixed signals, or missed ones. Because of that, I think, he had let his guard down, opened his heart to the possibility of Rebecca Cooper. I am writing her name as she really was, a serious contender to Barry's heart. She had humbled me throughout the eleventh grade. She made Barry stay out late and try to walk around the squeaks in the stairs as he came home later and later. I write this in my journal because I could see that he liked her. But one evening he let me know that I still had a chance; that I was still in his heart.

He was actually almost out of the door, but sauntered into the kitchen to see what I was cooking. I was determined to show him a happy face. After all, we had missed our chances, I thought. So I smiled when he came over and watched me rolling out the dough. He asked, 'What're you making?' and I said, 'A cherry pie.' He stepped back just a little. That was his favorite. He watched me take the dough and spread it in the pie pan. He said, 'Your cooking is really improving,' and I startled him with something, maybe my smile because it warmed me to hear him say that, because in all honesty, he and my dad were better cooks. He put his hands in his pockets and still watched. I put the sweetened cherries filling in the pie pan on the dough, and my eyes met Barry's as he watched me spread the cherry filling. He said, 'Save me a piece?' as if my dad and I were going to eat the whole thing. 'I'll save you a piece,' I said, and we both reacted, responded. It made him as hot as it made me, I could clearly see. It was not an open and shut case with Becky after all. I said, 'Cherries,' and smiled. I don't know why. He said, 'Did you put in vanilla?' I smiled because he was my vanilla guy. I said, 'Yes. You love vanilla, so I put some in.' He said, 'I'll have to get in early so that I can… get some… of your cherry… pie I mean. I mean cherry pie.' We were both at the point of blushing uncontrollably or laughing out loud or moving everything off the table and having sex on it. Well, I felt that we were both thinking that. I write this in the journal because watching me with the pie made him too late to see Becky. He went up stairs and came back down to the kitchen and he was in his sweats and tee shirt. Obviously he had called Becky for a rain check. But he was still happy sitting at the kitchen table with me waiting for the pie to bake. We talked about things that we had put off since his first sexual experience with Becky. In a way, Becky had taken my innocent boy from me. But I loved this one too. He kissed me on my mouth from time to time, we both pretending it was platonic. As his finger rounded the bowl for the last of the cherry filling, he got cherry filling on his lip, and I wiped it off with my finger. He looked surprised, then laughed some, then said, 'I'm gross.' And I said, 'Sometimes. But not tonight.'

On the way back, Barry recollected that, first from his memory, then from the fact that Iris had written it in her journal. And he was happy, which he knew was the reason Iris wrote it down. He was happy with Becky but he was always filled with an okay happiness with her. With Iris, he sat at the table and laughed and talked with her and forgot about Becky for this feeling that hit him in his gut whenever Iris smiled at him, or when her eyes brightened to one of his corny jokes, or when her mouth twisted in utter confusion to his most basic explanation of theoretical physics. It was all the same. He loved Iris West.

They were still on the road but close to the bungalow. Iris said, "What are you thinking?"

He said honestly, "Your blow job."

She smiled and said, "Thanks. Mission accomplished."

"But it made me think of something else," he said. "Your cherry pie."

"Barry, that was the only pie I ever made that had a happy ending."

Barry asked, "Meaning?"

"Meaning, I made Eddie a pie once, an apple pie, but Barry, I don't want to talk about it." Her look was pleading, vulnerable, and they were having too much fun with each other. He said, "Okay."

The car was pulling up to the bungalow. He looked to the backseat and retrieved the painting. Iris said, "Nice." He said, "It sure is." And then Iris said, "So what about dinner tonight?" and he laughed, softly. They started discussing whether they were going to the hotel proper and partake in some of the paid-for entertainment in their package. During the week, they had already missed two concerts, a movie, and a holiday cake baking class. And they meant to make those events, they wanted to, but they stayed in the bungalow to have sex. Neither one said it but they knew exactly what was on their menu.

Their days went like that until it was the day before New Year's Eve. Barry and Iris lounged on the beach under the big shade umbrella. They were talking about the little village and the early hours that the town closed down. As if the residents had unplugged the town until the next day. But they gladly settled for the shade under their umbrella, relaxing in his and hers beach chairs. Then they walked along the shore of the beach holding hands, not talking just a contented glance at each other from time to time, she in a vibrant printed beach dress, his pant legs rolled up to his calves, they both holding their sandals. Still strolling, still holding hands, she looked at Barry and said, "I made Eddie an apple pie once."

"I hope he appreciated it," Barry commented. "Your pies are good."

"He tried to appreciate it. But that was our problem, Barry."

"I don't know what you mean, Iris." They still walked along the shore. "Iris repeated, "I made him an apple pie, and instead of him waiting in the living room looking at sports or the news, the way he always did, he stayed in the kitchen with me, and talked to me and watched me while I made the pie." Iris stopped to remember. "It was fun, actually. I was surprised Eddie could feel that… that…."

"Domesticated?" Barry said, and Iris laughed. "Yes, could feel so Barry, so much like Barry Allen. I'm just realizing why it was so familiar and so heart-warming, and so… so Barry."

Barry laughed. "Yeah, I'm the guy to make apple pies with."

"—and cherry pies, and babies and a life with," Iris said. "It's why he was irritated on the phone the other night, because he had waited with me in the kitchen even though I could tell he really wanted to be in front of the sports channel. But we talked while the pie baked. Eventually we ate the pie sitting in the living room looking at sports analysis, which, he knew was not my thing, but I didn't care. It was his thing, and the pie was good and he kissed me and said, 'Thanks Iris.'

Barry listened, walking alongside his girl, they both still strolling, still holding hands.

"And the sex was the same that night."

Now Barry looked out into the horizon, wishing that he could have helped Iris back then.

"But… yes, it was the same. And we were both disappointed. I cried that night, because we tried hard, and for some reason he was angry and I was sad and I said we couldn't help how we felt. But he was still angry.

"He got up and went into the living room even though there was a television in the bedroom. He watched the sports channel in the living room, and I sat up in bed and wondered how we could make it work. But how could it work when he knew why I cried. I remember him saying 'This crying is not over me, or our relationship, or our efforts at sex. It has nothing to do with me, so shut up! Stop crying!' Which only made me cry more, and then he took me home. I remember walking past your empty bedroom after that. And he was right. It had nothing to do with him."

They continued to walk, strolling along. Then she let go of his hand and slid her arm around his waist as his arm came around her shoulder. He said, "Let's turn back." She said, "Okay." But before they did, he said, "Iris, I'm sorry that happened. He should have been more patient, should have let you come to terms with having lost your best friend. Because whatever else we were, we were best friends. It's too bad he didn't see that, but just a guy whose girl he wanted. If he could have looked beyond that, eventually he might have experienced the best love in the world."

Iris said, "I don't think so, Barry. It's why he was so angry. It's why he's angry to this day."

Barry said, "The three of us, we took our chances." And Iris shook her head, agreeing. "I believe fate gave us all what and who we deserve," Barry said.

Iris said, "I believe that too." They were stopped where the water and sand met. They embraced and kissed each other under a beautiful yellow horizon.

On New Year's Eve, they shunned the hotel's parties and party-goers as there were plenty of each. Instead, they made a pallet on the floor in front of the fireplace. They had a bowl of popcorn and a movie playing just over the fireplace. What was new was that he was giving her foot massages as they watched the movie. They listened to the fireworks outside all around them, saw the streamers, sparklers, heard the bottle rockets as assorted explosions of colors punched the night. They knew that confetti would be streaming from the hotel's celebration banquet rooms at midnight. Their package bought two tickets and they could clean up, dress up, and make one of the parties. They hadn't the tiniest desire to be in the hotel, to be in the ballroom yet again, to be with hundreds of people laughing, talking, dancing, eating cake and drinking champagne and yelling 'Happy New Year' and trying to kiss strange women or men, because after all, it was a new year.

There was a succession of serious fire cracker explosions, great balls of beautiful fireworks right outside of their bungalow windows. Barry did look excited, but he never stopped massaging Iris's feet. He was on a second round, working her toes. She said, "Barry that feels so good."

He said, "Thanks."

She said, "We can go look at the fireworks if you want."

He said, "I don't want. I'm doing what I want."

She was resting on her arms and elbows, her head tilted, looking at her husband, her foot in his lap. He smiled, always curious to know what she thought. She said, "Thanks for renting this bungalow instead of a suite in the hotel. We already live high in the sky." His smile was broad as he continued massaging her feet. She said, "If I could kiss you in this position, I would. But this belly of mine…."

"Is fine," he said. "Perfect," as he had both hands now, working her heel. Then he went to the other foot. And it was strange for them, because they had put on a movie and all but neglected it. Even the popcorn bowl stood untouched. After he had finished giving her feet a thorough going over, she said, "Thanks, Babe. They feel so much better. We can go dancing now if you want, Barry, seriously." And her smile was genuine.

"Iris, let's go swimming."

"Huh? In the ocean, at this time of night?"

"How about the pool at the hotel? I was really thinking about that. After all, we're paying for all of it. This bungalow is just a part of our hotel bill."

"Yes," Iris said, in mock suspicion. "Our hotel package is for rich people. You know what, Husband, I think we're richer than you want us to be. And that's okay, Barry. And I would, but…."

His lightning flashed through the bungalow and left Iris in a moment in time where she was about to say "I have no swimming cap," but he was in front of her, holding a woman's swimming cap. She caught up with Barry's present and sat back on her haunches, then accepted the swimming cap. He sat opposite her now, legs crossed, in a fine pair of black swimming trunks. She said, "And you changed too. I need a mirror," and he left her with a whoosh and almost immediately he sat cross-legged again, holding the mirror she left on the dresser. She smiled while he held it up. She took the swimming cap out of the bio-degradable wrapper, for points with Iris and he really believed that too. He was patient as she wrapped her hair then slid on the cap, and adjusted it for a snug but comfortable fit. Then she noticed something and turned her head just so to see the beautiful blue Iris painted onto the cap. She sat all the way down, still looking at herself donning the beautiful swim cap. He lowered the mirror and caught her tender expression, sweet, vulnerable, tied to their past, as always, both the swimming cap and the Iris flower.

"Okay, why is this so beautiful," she said. He said, "Because you are. You make everything beautiful, Iris."

"Why when I run away with you, I want to stay there forever."

He laughed, understanding what she meant.

"No, really, Barry, this swimming cap is so lovely. And you thought about me… and my hair… like the Y days… and Barry we are so going to swim in that Olympic size pool tonight. You wait right here." She got up and without a struggle. She laughed some at that realization and standing over him, and not forgetting that she was almost six months pregnant, she said, "I've got a black sexy number for tonight."

He said, "Babe, I know. I've been loving those baby doll shorties in bed."

She laughed, leaving him in the living room, saying, "I mean my bathing suit."

They swam in the pool the night of New Year's Eve for hours, playing and splashing and mock racing. Then he caught her up around her waist and they swam and glided silently together. In the middle of the night, they were wide awake, sitting by the pool's edge. He was drinking champagne, she ginger ale, they both eating oysters, whole clams, deviled eggs, lobster. He had ordered Happy New Year cake and the dessert waitress brought it to them poolside. When they finally got to the cake servings, he let her know that he had read almost all of her journals. She blessed his photographic memory as he was reciting some parts that were deep into her writings. Fireworks overhead did not deter him or even compete.

"I was late again for lunch that day. I shrugged in a c'est la vie way because I knew Becky was going to be all up in his face, sitting where I usually sit if I could just get my slow ass out of English and down to the cafeteria. I was stepping out of class knowing that I was going to sit at the end of the table and watch Becky flirt with Barry all lunch time and in my seat, smdh. But when I stepped into the hallway, Barry was leaning against the wall and he stood up and said, 'When you like a class, you like a class, and you love English.' I said, 'Yeah,' surprised, but then not surprised that he was waiting for me. 'Let me walk you to your locker. Then we'll get in the lunch line.'

Iris just looked at him after that recital and said, "I remember that day."

He said, "Yes, I do too."

She said, "And I don't blame Becky. I never did. I would've done the same thing. She did not give you up, and neither would I. And she had fight. It's why I really deep down liked her, but I couldn't afford to show it in the eleventh grade. Plus, I think she had the edge on me then."

He said, "I don't think so, Iris." Then he removed the tray of food between them and placed it on the other side of him. He got closer and his arm went around her shoulder and her head dipped on his. Sitting poolside, they watched the fireworks. He said, "Happy New Year, my wife." She said, "Happy New Year, my husband, my love."

When they got back to the bungalow, they showered, put on fresh pajamas, and got in bed. They were facing the fact that they had a plane to catch later on that morning, and would be in Central City later that night. Iris moved in Barry's space and he accepted her in his arms. He started doing his ritual tummy rub when… He turned to Iris as she just smiled, knowingly. "He kicked me," Barry said. "Iris, did you feel that?"

"He?" Iris questioned.

"Or she," Barry said. "She kicked me. Oh! She did it again." Iris was laughing softly. "Yeah, she is going to be like her dad… gonna use her feet."

Even in the dark, he had the biggest smile, and with his hand still on her belly, he leaned in to her space and kissed her. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Then they stretched out, pulled the covers over them and kissed and hugged and Barry got into his 'I don't want to hurt the baby' position, with his hips just off her belly, using the power in his thighs, his hands bringing her bottom to him. She hugged him. "I'm okay," she said. And they made love.

In the early morning of the new year, into their second year of marriage, they lay in bed, both awake, quiet, both on their backs, looking up at the ceiling, thinking of the last five days, and thinking too that, in a few hours, they would be at the airport.

She said, "I loved my vacation with you."

He said, "Thanks, Iris. I'm glad you did. Next year, where do you want to go?" and she said, "Someplace kid friendly." They both laughed softly and he said, "Of course." Then Barry turned to Iris and asked, "Before we get up, can I recite from your journal?"

She turned to him, amazed at his mind. "Go ahead," she said. "You've made my words come alive." And he started:

"Bartholomew Henry Allen can sing. Why doesn't he let people hear his fine voice? It's a lovely tenor. I heard him humming doing homework once and he stopped when I walked in. Why? I include this in this journal because when he looked up from his work, he had this happy expression on his face, his eyes were gentle in remembering something… I think his mother. I loved that happy face juxtaposed to the memories of his mother. Every now and then I would hear the satin in his voice when he washed the dishes and thought I couldn't hear. To be honest, I can't remember the songs, just that it exposed Barry's lovely soul, the melody, the lyrics, the tilt to his head as he sang and put the dishes in the dish rack. One day he's going to let the world hear that voice.

There was quiet in their one-year wedding anniversary vacation bedroom. The windows were open and a gentle breeze pampered them. In an hour or so, they had to get to the airport. They still lay side by side in the quiet. He said, "Thank you, for capturing my soul. You are my angel, Iris. And you always will be. I'm so looking forward to singing to our baby."

They didn't know why they had not moved. Their bags were all packed and all they had to do was shower and take their ride to the airport. But they lay holding each other knowing that getting out of bed would mean end of vacation, end of magic. But then she felt his hand search for hers and she slipped her hand in his. Their magic was with them and they would take it with them to their loft, to their own high in the sky, to their life back at Central City. In fact, wherever they wanted to go; wherever they decided to live.

He said, "I remember your caress when I was in the coma. And I always will. I remember your gentle hands, your gentle stroking; even when they were fretful, they were gentle, even with the mal stir in the room, which I now know to be Eddie, I felt your good presence."

"I hope it helped you to hold on,' she said.

"It did. But something else soothed me and I thought I would never be able to place it until your Christmas present, your 'I Love You, Barry Allen' Journal."

She laughed some, somewhat proudly even. "Are you really going to name it that?"

"I'm naming it that. Can I recite from it? One more time. For my heart, Iris, that raced so fast it could hardly register on Star Labs' monitors, and convinced you that I could not come back. What you did did register. What you did encouraged me to come back to you." He recited:

When I woke up, I lay beside him. I had gotten out of the chair and lay down in Barry's sick bed with him. It was the first time I had ever done that. I was giving up in a way and I wanted to feel the glory of what I knew I was going to miss; his arms, his long legs, his beautiful broad shoulders, his chest for my head, his flat stomach for my own, his hips that I will never touch, would never grab onto. Everything that I had never felt with my boyfriend Eddie, I felt it all just lying beside my best friend, who, now I'll admit, was always much much more. I include this in the journal because it encouraged me to write down how I felt about him. And lying in the darkness with him, both of us stretched out, side by side, not touching, except he had touched my heart. He had made me happy, and so, I write this down.

He leaned over and kissed her belly, and felt her hands in his hair, for a gentle caress of his head. It felt so familiar to Barry. He said, "Bart is going to love your hands."

She said, "Or Nora."

He said, "Maybe both," and she raised her head some. "Barry, twins?"

He laughed quietly, their happiness piercing through the dawn. The day was coming through. In fact, it was already there.