She surfaces from sleep slowly, a languorous rising up out of the depths of dreams which is not commonplace for her. He is in her arms, forehead pressed against her collarbone, wrapped tightly as though she had rocked him out of a despairing wakefulness and into an obliterating, welcomed unconsciousness. And perhaps she had.

"Let me take care of you," she whispers down into his hair, lips against the curve of his skull, the bone beneath the flesh. And she thinks of the organic body, muscles, skin, the heart and lungs, organs and blood inside his veins. She knows mortality, the brief span of being alive. The fragility and the strength. But lives can become intertwined, limbs entangle, the single life elicits a bigger force, growing out of two matched lives.

She tightens her arms, and pulls him even closer. He adjusts and she can feel him begin to wake in her embrace and she smiles. She is lonely with him asleep. Scooting down in the bed, catching his leg between her thighs, she seeks out his mouth with her own. He groans awake, eyes shut tightly against the light, against the waking. Perhaps he wants to hold onto his dream lover, but she does not want to make love to him in the aether.

His arms snake around her waist, fingers deep in the well of her spine, sliding upwards, cupping her just beneath the wings of her shoulder blades. He is pulling her hard and fierce now. He is fully awake, she senses the shift, his own surfacing, the occupation of his mind inside his body. His body, her body. She wonders at all the artists and poets, the songwriters and painters who have decried this separation of flesh, the barrier of skin that prevents full immersion into another body. The inability to absorb, the undeniable fact of the individual. The measurable thickness of flesh.

His palms are warm, deliciously so, his thigh insistent between hers. His hands move back down and he grips her hips with a needful strength that takes her breath away. He is all sharp edges, flexing muscle, impossible bone and she no longer wants to flay their skins and blend their viscera, she wants the difference that marks him male and her female. She is panting for the impossible union, the astonishing joyous fact that their bodies work in tandem without words, without spoken conversation. And yet their hearts are in dialogue, she can feel the weight of the organ that powers her life's blood, he has made it heavy. Holding his body against hers, his hot breath on her breasts, the clever fingers ghosting her flesh, his teeth grazing the particular shape of the muscles that wrap her bones, all of this is solid and substantial. She feels her heart yearning for him and it is overwhelming. With no warning, he is inside her body. She begins to cry and he kisses her open-mouthed, licking at her tears, and she tastes the salt and sweat.

He brings one hand up to her face, covers her eyes. His name is the sound of weeping, the inescapable truth that they have been allotted a transient time. She is overcome, grateful for the fact that he has hidden her eyes, hidden her from the daylight, from the world. He presses her head sideways, his body is on fire, she is dry tinder beneath him, and he is igniting her. She wants to feed herself into his hungry flame.

His mouth is against her ear and he tells her how much he loves her. Now and forever. Her last coherent thought, before she becomes ash, is that forever can only be the sum of both their lives, the unknowable beatings of their two hearts. It is enough, it is more than enough.


"You alright?" he asked, his voice quiet, rocking her against him, slow, small movements of both their bodies.

She knows that if she allowed herself, she could descend into a blue warm darkness that would swallow her for hours, a kind of drowning by delirious sleep. She breathed out of that place and opened her eyes, nodding. "I am. Yes."

He slowly released her and climbed out of the bed, returning with a lit cigarette and a bottle of beer.

"What time is it?" she asked, sitting up, mashing the pillow behind her back.

"Half three."

"You were tired."

"You were tired," he counters, opening the beer and settling in beside her, handing her either the beer or the smoke, her choice.

She took a long draw off the beer, shaking her head at the cigarette. "I thought you were going to quit."

"Quitting isn't the problem, aye? It's staying quit."

She laughed. "Okay. I honestly don't care if you smoke, Fil. One cig a day or two packs. But it would be nice if you lived a long life. You know?"

He looked up at the ceiling, blowing a perfect smoke ring, then another. He got back out of bed and returned without the cigarette. He threw himself down next to her, crossing his ankles, fingers laced behind his head. "How long and for what reason?"

"For love. And until one minute after I go."

"Go where?" He smiled and closed his eyes. "Ah, shake off your coil." He leaned up on one elbow and she handed him the beer. "When's this happening?"

She shrugged. "Not for a long, long time. We'll be old. Ancient. With grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Living in one of those small bungalows we saw yesterday."

His brow furrowed. "You've decided that's what you want?"

"Why not?

He shook his head, his eyes very serious. "Why?"

She gave him a puzzled look, twisting her lips sideways. "What do you mean 'why?' Because that's what people do. I want that with you. With you. I would be making so much money, Fil. We could live off that until you find something you want to do." She looked away from him. "You could be a paramedic. It's only a four month course, a test, licensing."

"You think I could pass a live scan, Tara? Fingerprints? A background check?" He was incredulous. "You're dreaming."

"Maybe," she whispered. "There might be a way. You don't know."

"I do know. I do. There's not."

"Why are you being like this?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Like wot exactly?"

"So negative?"

"I'm a realist."

She changed the subject. "I can't believe that was yesterday."

"Right. I can't either. It's as if I'm living some kind of double life."

"That's not good."

"No, it doesn't feel good." He finished the beer. "You wanta go for a ride?"

She nodded. "Yes. Always."


They were in the driveway, standing beside the motorcycle. He was looking far down the road, tapping his gloves into the palm of one hand. He turned to her, his face all hard angles.

"We have to be," he hesitated, looking at her, "careful now."

"Careful? Of what?"

He sighed. "All the boys are out. It's not like before. We could run into any one of them. And it wouldn't be good."

She pursed her lips. "I'm not even going to discuss that. Some primitive male ownership thing. That's caveman stuff and I just can't. I'm sorry."

His expression had grown dark. "It's how it is, Tara. Whether you hold to it or not."

"Well, I don't. And I don't like it. And, frankly, I'm surprised you're okay with it."

"I didn't say I was okay with it. I said it's the way that it is." He was growing angry.

"What exactly are you afraid of?"

"I'm not fucking afraid of anything."

"Then what are you," she paused, searching for a better word, "concerned about? Jax's feelings?"

His body had gone frighteningly still, the viper before the strike. She backed up a step. "Or maybe it's not Jax at all, but yourself. Your own standing with the club."

Still he was silent. She could see him turning this over in his mind, his eyes had narrowed an imperceptible degree, but she saw it.

"It's my life, Tara. My god damned piece of shite life."

"Then maybe it's time for a new life, Filip."

With a quick and angry motion, he slapped both his hands on top of his head and walked away from her. Long strides down the driveway and into the street. He stopped facing away from her, pulling his head down. Then he was looking skyward, arms loosely at his side, the gloves still in one fist, rolling his head on his shoulders.

She could feel herself filling with a strange mixture of rage and sadness. She sat down on the cold cement, watching him and waiting for him.