A Thousand Words

Chapter 6

The Morning After

I was awakened by the shrill wail of a siren outside as a police car sped by, and as I awoke I became aware of the sweet sensation of soft fingertips caressing my flesh. Erik was lying next to me on his side, his head propped up in one hand, while his other hand slowly traced a meandering path across my body. He smiled sweetly as he gazed into my half-opened eyes.

"Good morning," he said softly.

As my eyes slowly adjusted to the bright morning light, I saw the man who had reduced me to a quivering mass the night before. He was a sight: his normally tidy hair was sticking out every which way, and he desperately needed a shave. But his warm gray-green eyes glowed as he watched me, and I didn't give a damn how he looked.

My thoughts immediately returned to the night before, to the ceaseless pleasure and seemingly countless releases I had experienced at this man's hands. Had I ever been so fully satisfied before? I couldn't remember, but I seriously doubted it. No man had ever brought me to the brink of agony and then to the pinnacle of ecstasy as he had. We joined together again and again during the night, and each time was more intense, more fulfilling than the last. We finally slept from pure exhaustion, cocooned together in the blanket which had previously served as our picnic table.

Erik continued his caresses. I stretched lazily, languidly, enjoying the sensations he brought forth with his light touch.

"How did you get this?" he asked, referring to the scar on my abdomen. My face must have registered some sort of anguish, for he added, "if you want to talk about it."

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time," I answered softly. "I was shot."

"My God, where were you?"

"At work." I turned away from him, indicating that I didn't want to talk about it any more.

I felt his hand on my shoulder, pulling me back towards him.

"It's all right, you don't have to talk about it. But it's nothing to hide. Really. It's just a little scar, that's all. Nothing more." And to prove it, he bent down and gently kissed the angry red mark that had caused me so much turmoil in the previous weeks. I almost believed his words. But it would always be more than just a little scar to me.

I wondered again about Erik's mask and what lay under it. Surely he didn't wear it as a fashion statement; he must be hiding some sort of deformity or scars of his own. It had to be pretty bad for him to feel the need to wear that mask. My little scar must be small potatoes indeed compared to whatever he was hiding. I decided, however, that I would let him bring up the subject in his own time. I would not push.

Because I felt so comfortable, so safe, in Erik's studio, the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was leave. But I simply had to. I needed some time alone to properly digest all that had happened in the past 24 hours, so I got up off the floor and began getting dressed.

"Stay with me." His tone was somewhat commanding, but I could detect a hint of pleading underneath.

"I have to get home. I have to feed my cat," I said.

As I pulled on my jeans, he rose off the floor and began clearing up the mess we made during the night: warm, gooey cheese and crushed crackers lay strewn about, and the wine bottle lay empty off to one side along with our glasses. He was about to take the remnants of our midnight feast to the kitchen when a wine glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

"Damnation!" he muttered, and he bent to pick up the shards of broken glass. I went to help him, and as he glanced up at me a sharp sliver cut into the palm of his hand. I quickly steered Erik over to the sink in the kitchen and ran his bleeding hand under the faucet to clean the wound, then I inspected the damage.

"It's not too deep; I think you'll live. Do you have any bandages?"

"I think there may be some in the bathroom..."

"All right. Stay here and I'll check." I put his hand back under the running water and went into the bathroom. I returned a few moments later with two tiny Band-Aids; they were all I could find. I carefully dried off the cut and applied the two bandages.

"You really should have more first-aid supplies in here than just a few Band-Aids, you know," I said. "Accidents do happen."

"What are you, a nurse?" he asked jokingly.

"No. A doctor."

He stared at me, dumbfounded, for several long seconds. I knew what he was thinking; the same questions had been racing through my mind since I first picked up the phone to answer his ad. But right now I really wasn't in the mood to justify my actions to him, or to myself, so I quickly finished getting dressed and prepared to leave. But before I could open the door, he stopped me.

"Answer one question," he said to me.

I turned to him.

"Will you come back?"

I could tell by his expression that he wasn't asking as an artist, he was asking as a lover. How could I resist those eyes, especially when I had experienced first hand the passion that lay behind them?

I went back to where he sat on the kitchen stool and planted a long, slow, deep kiss on his lips. Then I turned back around to the door.

"I'll be back," I said over my shoulder before closing the door behind me.

_oo00**00oo_

In the sunny but frigid morning, I trudged through the new-fallen snow. I needed time to clear my head, and a good long walk seemed the perfect opportunity. How could I put into words the reasons for my actions? Was it because I had been so near death that I no longer had any fear? Or was I trying too hard to convince myself that nothing had changed? Something made me answer that mysterious ad in the paper; something made me want to strip myself naked in front of a total stranger. I would never even have thought of doing such a thing before.

My mind wandered back to that fateful day:

I was in the emergency room, valiantly trying to save the life of a teenager who had been shot in the chest. No one in the room noticed that his assailant had come in to finish off the job until he pushed me away from the table. I yelled for security, and I tried to reason with him to not make things worse. I thought I had gotten through to him when the security guards arrived and grabbed him, but he still managed to fire off two shots: one killed the boy lying on the table, and one went into me. I vaguely remember falling backwards, and then everything went black.

I awoke the next day in a hospital bed, recovering from surgery to repair the damage that had been done to my body by the bullet and from the concussion I received in the fall. Recuperation in the hospital and at home was a slow process, and while I was away from my job the hospital administrators decided that I needed additional time off - they were worried about post-traumatic stress and didn't want to lose their top trauma specialist - and put me on leave of absence. I didn't argue with them. I wasn't in any particular hurry to return.

The cold air was invigorating. Before I knew it, I had turned the corner to my block - had I walked all that distance from Erik's studio? - and approached my building. I said hello to the doorman and waited for the elevator.

Spot meowed urgently at me when I opened the door. He was more than a little miffed at having been left alone all night, and without food! I immediately fed him (the good stuff, the canned food with meaty gravy), and suddenly all was forgiven.

My answering machine also was a little miffed: it showed 12 messages. I pressed the play button. "Chris, I thought we'd go out for dinner tonight, what do you say? Call me." It was Randy. Beep. "Chrissy, are you there? Are you OK?" Beep. "I hope you haven't run off to Tahiti without me, where are you?" Beep. Click. Beep. Click. Beep. The rest of the messages were hang-ups, and I knew it was Randy. He must have called all night. I really should call him, let him know I'm OK. But not right now. I needed a shower.

The hot water felt so good. I stood in the tub and let the water pelt against me, soothing my aching muscles - I didn't do myself any favors by sleeping on the cold, hard floor. Whoever invented the Shower Massage should get a medal.

I fixed myself a sandwich after I was dried and dressed, realizing that I hadn't eaten much of anything since the previous morning. As I sat at the kitchen table, absently feeding Spot bits of turkey from my sandwich, my mind wandered back to Erik. I couldn't wait to go back.