May 7th
It is two weeks after the crane disaster and Dana's consequent brief sojourn at his place. Greg has seen her in session twice since then, and they've spoken on the phone. Not just appointment confirmations either—she's called him several times to talk and even spent the weekend at his place, something no one has ever done with him before, or wanted to do. It was actually . . . enjoyable. He is here now because he has an appointment and also because he wants to see her, a truth he hasn't admitted out loud, but it's there all the same.
At the moment however he regrets showing up. He is naked of course, placed in the middle of the stage, seated on a stool. It's actually fairly comfortable; the seat is well-padded and supports him, eases the pressure on his bad leg. That's a good thing, because his hands are tied loosely behind his back and the silk ties secured to the rungs. His feet are bound in place too, which makes it impossible for him to move. He'd watched her fasten his ankle bindings to the wood, her touch light and deft; she made sure he was held in place without compromising his circulation. But that was before she blindfolded him, something he always dreads. His heart rate is up and his breathing too shallow; it makes him light-headed.
"It's all right," Dana—or rather, m'lady says. There's a difference between the two and he knows it; here in this moment, the dom is in charge. Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder; her thumb strokes his skin slow and gentle. "No pain, just me touching you." She pauses. "May I proceed?"
He manages a nod. The fear is less now than it was when he first began sessions a few months ago; in his everyday life he's actually able to handle it now when someone brushes against him without descent into panic, and he can even stand the thought of shopping, as long as he does it late at night when the store is far less crowded. But this—enclosed in darkness, vulnerable and helpless—terrifies him more than he can say. He takes a shaky breath.
"Okay." Her small hand moves in a little circle, offers a last bit of comfort. "Let's begin." She gets up and leaves him. His fear rises and he can't help but test his bonds. They flex but don't loosen. He is well and truly trapped.
"Don't forget the safe word," m'lady says softly, and just that quickly, his fear subsides—it doesn't disappear, but with her quiet reminder, he remembers that he has the final say in how far the session goes. As he draws in another deep breath to relax, she places something next to him, a small table or tray most likely, at least that's his guess from the ambient sounds. He tries to look at it out of reflex, but the blindfold is opaque with no gaps. "I will present you with something, and you tell me what you think it is."
This session stands at the threshold of an ancient, vast and much-hated territory: the unpredictable and often abusive event. He remembers the frozen agony of ice baths, afternoons spent under a broiling sun as he mowed lawns or pulled weeds without respite of shade or water, slaps across the face even when he wasn't a smartass, hard rough hands that pounded his body, caused injury and pain under the guise of boxing lessons forced on him without notice—all experiences he had to endure without any chance at escape, at least until he was old enough and strong enough to fight back.
"Gregory." M'lady's gentle voice pulls him back to the present. "What are you thinking of?"
"How . . . how much it sucked being a kid, not—not knowing what would happen next." He winces at the halting words.
"My lady," she reminds him. He heaves an impatient sigh.
"M'lady." He makes it a caress instead of a joke, and is rewarded with a kiss. Just a brush of her lips over his, but it's sweet and lingering, and hints at other things they might do once the session is over.
"Nothing bad will happen here." He knows she's truthful. He's only used the safe word once, but the result was immediate. He still can't believe it worked just as she said it would. Now he has to fight the temptation to use it just because he can. "All right, I'll give you a freebie." She leans in and kisses his cheek. "That was your first official touch. What was it?"
"Your lips, m'lady," he says, and dares to make a joke. "Maybe next time I'll get a little tongue action."
She laughs softly. The clench of anxiety deep inside him relaxes a bit at the sound. "If you've earned it. Now," there is a pause, and something strokes his cheek where she kissed him, trails over his neck and down his chest. "What's this?"
A fragrance emanates from whatever it is she's using. "Lavender," he says. "Fresh, not dried." The scent is spicy-sharp, clean and pleasing. He savors it and remembers Dana's clothing often has a faint aroma like this one. "I think m'lady has a garden."
"Nicely done," she says. "And yes, I do, at my place in the country. I'd like to show it to you someday." She draws the soft spike of flowers over his mouth, a fleeting, light stroke, and he thinks of her kiss, her lips like the velvet of the tiny leaves.
A flogger is next. The now-familiar rhythmic, gentle slap and trail of the thongs across his upper back brings echoes of his father's belt, but in a way that exorcises the pain and leaves exhilarating pleasure in its place. When m'lady lays a little trail of soft kisses from the nape of his neck to the top of his spine he groans, and his penis stirs in response.
"Flogger and extras," he says before she asks. Something touches his chin and tips his face up—the handle of the instrument, smooth and warm.
"Impertinent. Wait for the question." She sounds stern but not angry. A moment later she opens his mouth and puts something on his tongue. Juicy tart-sweetness floods his tastebuds. "What is it?"
"Peach preserves," he says, and welcomes her kiss. It tastes of her and of summer, ripe and rich and sultry. By the time it ends he strains forward. His belly tightens with need.
"Patience," m'lady says. She's smiling again, he can hear it in her voice, damn her. "Now, tell me what this is."
A fugitive lightness tickles his forehead, flutters over his cheek to his chin, then to his chest, flicking his nipples and surprises a sound out of him, almost a giggle but not quite. It moves along his collarbone to his arm, leaves a faint, erratic trail to his bound wrists. It's so quick and elusive he can't tell what it is; frustrated, he struggles to use his senses to solve the puzzle. The thing runs the length of his good leg, circles his knee. He hears a slight rustle. "Feather!" he says in triumph. The tip tickles his erection, strokes the shaft so that he shudders. "It's a feather, m'lady," he modifies his answer, and hopes a show of obedience will get him his reward a little faster.
"Excellent. Now . . . how about this?"
Half a dozen questions later he eagerly anticipates what will come next, his fear reduced to a sort of low-grade anxiety, hardly noticeable by his standards, almost pushed aside by his need for release. The dark is no longer terrifying; with her there to guide him through the use of his other senses, he's actually having something that could very loosely be classified as fun.
"Well done," m'lady says finally. She moves behind him and lightly presses her body to his. She's naked as well, and when she reaches around to take him in hand her breasts ease against him, so full and soft he aches with the urge to hold them and suckle her charming little nipples, an activity he never fails to enjoy during their nights together. "When you walk into a crowded environment, treat it like a game," she whispers in his ear. "Find one sound, one fragrance, one taste, one touch, or one sight and focus on it while everything else stays in your peripheral awareness. Will you try?"
"Yes," he says, almost unable to speak.
"My lady," she says with mock sternness. He groans and she laughs softly. "Now, a final guess. What is this?" Something is dabbed on his bottom lip. He sweeps it with his tongue and can't help but smile in wry amusement at the subtle, faintly floral taste.
"Lube, m'lady," he says. She kisses his bald spot.
"Very good," she says, but he doesn't really hear her because of the sweet, slow strokes her slick fingers and palm administer now. Her body rubs his, up and down, slight movements that drive him wild. Bit by bit she brings him to the edge; her free hand circles his nipples, fingers trail over his belly, his sides. Her arm slips about him in a gentle embrace when he finally comes, gasping as release and intense pleasure wash through him in waves. Slowly he leans back against her while she holds him and doesn't say anything. Her touch is welcome and comforting; he soaks it up, amazed at how good it feels to have someone support him, both literally and figuratively. It's been so long since he's allowed someone this close—no, that's not true. He's never let anyone get past this many masks, not even Stacy. A part of him is still wary and that might never change; but in this moment he trusts her almost to completion, and it feels both terrifying and freeing at the same time, like a jump out of a plane in the belief the parachute on your back will open and carry you to safety. He wants to stay in this place forever, though he knows it won't last longer than his next breath.
After a little while she lets him go and kneels to release the silk ties. When he is free she rubs his wrists and ankles, though he has only a couple of pink pressure marks which fade quickly, and there's no consequent numbness or tingling. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to use her as a support when she helps him stand, his arm about her waist. Together they walk from the stage to the hallway, and from there to their bedroom, bright with morning sunshine.
"Did your father lock you in a darkened room when he wanted to punish you?" Dana asks him a bit later, as they lie together on the big bed. Her hand holds his, cool and dry. He nods.
"When I was younger . . ." He pauses. "Closets, mainly. It was easier to control me in a small space."
She doesn't attempt to comfort or reassure him, and for that he's glad. "How often?"
"Not very. It was special discipline, reserved for the worst offenses." He concentrates on the feel of her body next to his, her skin soft and warm, like silk under his fingertips. "Mostly for ingratitude."
Dana turns her head to look at him. In the slanting sunbeams her hair gleams honey-gold. "You didn't express sufficient appreciation to make your father happy?"
You don't know how good you have it. Greg hears the familiar words and swallows on a dry throat. "Yeah."
"How long were you kept in the dark?" She is calm, unemotional. It helps him get the words out.
"The longest was two days. Mom would . . ." He takes a breath, exhales slowly. "If she was home, she would talk to him, persuade him to let me out. That time she was away for the weekend, visiting Oma or something." The fear waits in the old memory. "He locked me in and he just . . . left me." He hears the hitch in his voice and loathes his weakness. "At first I tried to get his attention, but after a few hours it was obvious he'd decided I was non-existent. That was before I understood he could get mad and not speak for weeks or even months on end."
"How old were you?" Dana's voice is very quiet, barely more than a whisper.
"Four." He feels the confusion, the bewilderment and panic as it gradually became a sort of dull acceptance. "I was bad," he says, and realizes he's spoken out loud.
"You were four. How long did this continue?"
He struggles to recall, caught up in the memory. "I was eight the last time. By then I was getting too smart for such a simple solution. I'd already learned to pick locks."
"Good for you," Dana says. She means it. A little of the pain lifts at her words. Greg looks at her. She returns his regard, her grey eyes steady. "Are you afraid of enclosed places?"
He thinks about it. "No. Just—" He stops.
"Blackness," she says. That surprises him a bit. "I've slept with you, Gregory. You've never shown any problems being in a darkened room. But when you're wearing the blindfold you panic."
"Lack of control. And I was distracted," he points out the flaws in her theory.
"To some degree on both counts. But I'm willing to bet even if you chose to put that length of silk on yourself, you'd have much the same reaction."
He thinks about it. Maybe she's right. "Bullshit."
That makes her smile. "Something to consider." She puts a hand on his chest, a gesture she uses often with him. It's partly to comfort, but also to claim. He rather likes it, though of course he won't tell her.
After a time they end up on the terrace. The glass doors are open to bring in the softer weather. It's late morning now, with plenty of sun and warm breezes to be had. As they drink coffee and enjoy fresh cinnamon rolls, when he blurts out "I want to do it over again, only more to the point." He doesn't look at her, doesn't want to say any of this, but he's determined to get it out before his courage fails him. What he considers is total insanity, and if he thinks about it much longer, the larger part of him that doesn't want to confront anything from his past ever again will win out. "I want you to be there when he puts me in the closet."
Anyone else would have been confused, or cracked a stupid obvious joke, or asked him idiotic questions. Dana just says "All right."
And so half an hour later Greg sits on the stage once more, but this time he's not bound to a stool, nor is he naked; he wears the light silk robe Dana keeps here for him, and he's quite comfortable in the easy chair she's brought up for his use. She sits directly in front of him on the stool, their knees almost touching. When she offers the blindfold; he puts it on and makes sure no light leaks in anywhere. When he ties the knot in the back his hands shake, but he manages it, makes it tight and secure.
"Ready?" Dana asks. Greg nods. "Okay." Her hands come to rest on his, light as air. "Focus on your breathing. In and out, slow, deep . . ."
She brings him gently through the stages of consciousness, moves him down until he's almost floating. And then he faces the hard, sharp-edged stone of fear lodged deep inside him. "Gregory," her soft voice whispers, "you're four years old . . ." The gentleness gives way to cold anger. " . . . and you haven't shown any gratitude."
("Stubborn brat!"
Big hands grab the collar of his shirt and lift him up, half-strangling him. He dangles before a huge red face with enormous eyes that glare at him, full of rage. The mouth opens to reveal big white teeth. His father has turned into a monster. Terror renders him helpless.
"I'll teach you to defy me, you ungrateful little bastard! You need to learn about consequences!"
He is dragged to the front hall closet. Frightened, he tries to cling to the doorjamb when he's stuffed in among the coats and boots, but his fingers are pried free and the door slams shut. He hears the lock turn and fear floods him. He can't stay here in the dark, his father can't leave him! He bangs on the door. "Daddy! Daddy, please!"
No answer. His father's brisk footsteps fade until there's nothing, not even the sound of someone moving. He listens as his breath hitches in his chest, but all he hears is silence. What if he's alone in the house? What if his father walked out and won't ever come back? Terror turns to full-blown panic. He kicks and slams at the door, frantic to make it open. It doesn't budge. "DADDY! Let me ooooouuut! I'll be good, I'll be good, I'll be good!"
For what feels like an eternity he sobs and fights and yells, but there is no response. It is then he understands his father won't come back. Abruptly all the strength goes out of his legs. He half-collapses, half-sits on the floor. Jackets and coats brush the top of his head, boots on either side of him. The stuffy, stale-smelling blackness engulfs him whole.
After a while he dares to move and something soft falls on him. In startled reflex he pushes it away, but it's not a creature trying to gobble him up. It is his mother's good winter cloth coat, the one she only wears when she and Daddy go someplace special. He touches it, then lays it flat, lies down and curls up inside it, surrounded by the soft silky lining; it smells of her perfume, a small comfort in the nothingness where he's trapped. Worn out, he drifts off to sleep.
When he wakes up he's hungry and thirsty and he has to pee. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and tries to orient himself. But the lack of light is too complete; he has no idea which way he's facing. It's as if everything he knows has been taken away. Still, he gets to his feet and reaches out, his hands knocking into the door as he fumbles around. Maybe he can get out—
He freezes when he finds the doorknob. Even if it is unlocked, what if it's a trick? What if his father waits outside for him to disobey yet again, what would happen then? He remembers Daddy's monster-face, the wide angry eyes and mouth full of teeth, and backs away from the door without even trying to see if it's open. He snuggles in Mommy's coat, pulls it around him like a protective shield.
For a long, long time he stays there, fights the growing urge to urinate, the rumble of hunger in his stomach, his dry mouth. The blackness presses down on him, leaches into his body, relentless and irresistible, terrifying. He buries his face in the warm soft lining and tries to think of other things, like the story Mommy read him the night before—Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel, one of his favorites, and he likes the pictures too. He tries to imagine himself in charge of a big piece of equipment like that. Maybe someday when he's grown up he will, though he doesn't think so. He watched a big dump truck once as it carried loads of gravel to a construction site, and by the second trip he was bored. He hates being bored . . . Slowly he slips into daydreams of other adventures he's read about, and dozes off.
When he wakes up again, he knows he's got a big problem. He has to pee, he can't hold it any longer. Slowly he sits up, winces at the cramp in his belly, and tries to figure out what to do. If he pees his pants it'll get all over whatever he sits or lies on. He knows that because any time he's had an accident, he's had to wear wet pants for the rest of the day as a punishment, a thoroughly miserable experience. And he can't just pee on the floor, that's even worse. Better to use a boot, if he can locate one of his.
He feels with his hands out, stumbles over shoes and boots and odd objects for which he has no name, and finally finds one of his rubber galoshes. He feels it all over to make sure it's really his, then moves forward until he bumps into the wall, gropes further to find a corner. If he can't see, it's better to have to the boot out of the way so he doesn't knock it over and spill pee everywhere. He pushes things away so there is a bare area, puts his boot in the spot where the two walls meet, tugs down his pants, and is gripped by a dread so powerful he is paralyzed. This is wrong, he knows it's wrong. If he's ever let out of here, Daddy will immediately know what he's done and he'll be punished for ruining his boots. He doesn't know what the consequences of this action will entail, but he has no doubt it will be far more serious than what he goes through now.
At last out of sheer urgent need he lets go. His breath shudders at the immense relief of emptying his distended bladder, as well as the sure knowledge he will get into even deeper trouble, if that's possible. When he's done he pulls up his pants, crawls back into Mommy's coat and pulls it over him, pretends he's a turtle in its shell way down at the bottom of a deep, dark river.
He has to pee again later. It's a little easier this time—the bad thing's already done, it doesn't matter now if he does it again. His main concern at the moment is hunger; it presses him hard. He puts a hand over his empty tummy as coats ruffle his hair . . . and a voice blooms in his mind, like one of Mommy's garden flowers: check the coat pockets, it whispers. He's heard that voice before and it's always told him good things, right things, so he obeys and is rewarded with two pieces of wrapped candy—starlight mints. His mother usually takes a few when she goes to the bank, there's a big bowl of them on a table at the entrance.
He knows he has to ration his find, so he puts one candy in his mouth and tucks the other one in a pocket of the good winter cloth coat. Then he settles in to savor the sweet taste. It won't fill his empty stomach, but it will make him feel better.
Slowly he drifts into a sort of half-doze, as peppermint lingers sharp and cool on his tongue. He thinks of his mother seated by his bed, book in hand; he sees her in the kitchen as she stirs something on the stove and hums along with a song on the radio. There's a tin on the counter shaped like a carousel, filled with oatmeal raisin cookies, his favorite. He wants one so badly . . . His empty belly growls. He tries to think of food, all his favorites—cookies, hot dogs and hamburgers and potato chips, crispy french fries and Mommy's chocolate cake, but all that does is make things worse. Better to go to sleep.
When he wakes again hunger is a clenched, burning fist in his gut. And he's thirsty too, his lips and tongue dry. At one point he's so desperate he tries the doorknob, determined to get out even if his father waits for him. The door is still locked. He stands there for a long time and wonders dully if he should try again to push the door open somehow, or just go back to his nest. His hands and feet hurt from his first panicked attempt to free himself; he doesn't want to feel more pain, but if it gets him out . . .
He tries to shove at the solid wood, then twists the knob, but his hands are too small and he just ends up falling down and hits his forehead on something hard, so that he sees stars and feels wobbly and disoriented. In pain, discouraged and exhausted, he slinks back to his nest and stays there as tears slip down his cheeks. One good thing about the dark—Daddy can't see him. His father says boys don't cry, and when they do they get something to really cry about, which doesn't make any sense at all. But right now he's too tired to try to puzzle it out.
A little while later, when he opens his eyes it's to find what looks like a faint, fuzzy bar of light. Startled, he starts to rise and winces as his forehead throbs; when he feels it there's a big tender lump. He eases himself upright with care. The bar slowly tilts until it's horizontal. It looks like it's right before him. He reaches out. To his amazement he can just barely see his fingers in the dim glow. His hand is illuminated more as he reaches forward. After some exploration he finds a slight gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. That's where the light comes from—outside.
He wastes a few minutes trying to get his fingers under the door. As small as they are, they're still too big to fit. After a while he gives up and just watches the light on his skin. For a very long time he does this, until he's too tired to do it anymore. Then he crawls to the coat. He doesn't think of anything; he just closes his eyes and gives up. When he looks later, the light is gone.
He pees for a third time. The little space has started to reek of urine. He's felt the urge to move his bowels but fought it; he knows that such an act would mean certain annihilation. Under no circumstances whatsoever would either parent ever forgive him for pooping outside a toilet; he knows it like he knows his name. His hunger has abated for the moment, but he's so thirsty he feels like he could drink a whole grownup glass of water. He's tempted to pry at the door, but he understands now it's pointless. He wants the light to come back, because it's at least companionship of some kind; he wishes Mommy's coat would turn into his bed, with sheets and pillows and a lamp on the stand, with a plateful of cookies and a big glass of milk and a stack of books waiting to be read . . . He puts his head down. After a few moments his thumb slips into his mouth, something Daddy doesn't like. But Daddy isn't here, and anyway no one can see, not even he himself.
Gradually he drifts into a sort of daydream. In his imagination he runs down a street and a monster chases him. It doesn't matter where he tries to hide, the monster always finds him. He is about to wriggle underneath a car when suddenly light explodes all around him.
"What on earth-?"
He bursts out of his nightmare and scrambles to a sitting position, terror makes him clumsy as he grabs Mommy's coat and tries to hide under it. To no avail—it's yanked off and he's hauled to his feet. "Gregory House! You peed in here?" His mother towers over him. He wrenches his arm free and backs away. She'll take him to Daddy, and then—
"Greg . . ." Her voice is softer now. She stretches out her hand and he comes up against a wall, trips over things in his desperation to escape capture. Beyond her the light from the other room hurts his eyes but he wants to go to it, out of the blackness. And yet he can't see a way to get there without the risk of being snagged and hauled away for more punishment. It will happen eventually, but the longer he can put it off-
"Greg, honey-it's all right." Mommy drops her arm and crouches down. "Have you . . . have you been in here since I left? Daddy . . . he locked you in?" She sounds funny. He watches her, wary of a trap. After a few moments he nods. Mommy sighs and looks down. "He . . . he didn't let you out this whole time?" He shakes his head and winces as his injured forehead aches.
"Oh, sweetheart. What did you do?" Her fingers brush his forehead, but he knows she doesn't ask how he hurt his head. She wants to know how he was bad. It's always her first question when Daddy disciplines him. "Greg . . .you must learn to obey your father." Silence falls. He watches her, but all she does is sit down, her legs crossed. She looks strange. And then he realizes she's crying.
I made Mommy cry. This is far, far worse than the blackness or any punishment he can think of. Distress fills him, as painful as the cramps in his bowels and his empty belly. He doesn't know what to do. If he comes closer, he'll be in trouble. But if he doesn't try to do something to make Mommy feel better, he'll hurt her even more, and lately he's begun to understand she's all he has. He wavers, torn between two impossible choices, helpless to do anything about it.
After a while she wipes her eyes. "Come on, Greg. Let's get this cleaned up before Daddy gets home." She clambers to her feet and moves away; she clearly expects him to follow her. He hesitates; then he faces the inevitability of consequences. What's more, he'll have to tell her he needs to use the bathroom, and that will surely earn him more condemnation. Slowly he moves forward. For the first time he wishes he was a grownup so he could just continue to walk past her and do whatever he likes. Someday when he's big that's what he'll do . . .)
He pulls out of the memory with a shock. His face is wet; he shakes like he's in a windstorm. Dana's hands hold his, warm and steady. "Did I . . . say anything out loud?" he asks after a time. His voice is rough, too loud.
"Yes," Dana says. She sounds suspiciously husky. He frees one of his hands and reaches out, finds her face, strokes his thumb over her cheek. Much to his surprise, there are no tears. When he lowers his hand she takes it again, rests it on her knee. It feels good.
"What happened after your mother returned?"
"We cleaned up the urine. When my father came home, she told him." His voice is flat now, unemotional, but he feels the reflexive roil of decades-old anxiety and bewilderment under the statement of fact.
"I'm sure you were punished," Dana says softly.
"For the next week I spent eight hours a day in the closet," he says. Her hands tighten on his this time.
"Oh my god." There is absolute outraged fury in her quiet voice. "You were only four years old."
"My father believed in discipline." He feels a distant surprise at her anger.
"He believed in abuse." Dana's voice is flat now, ice-cold. "You were four years old." To his surprise she releases her hold. He feels her fingers on the blindfold as she undoes the knot at the back and removes it. He blinks, goes still when her hands come up to frame his face, her touch infinitely tender, but without a shred of pity or sympathy. He doesn't know how he knows that; he just does. She doesn't say anything. Wild anger blazes in her storm-grey eyes—indignant outrage on his behalf. It is astonishes him, it's nothing he's ever seen before in anyone, not for him anyway. On impulse he leans forward and kisses her. When it ends he rests his forehead against hers. He feels hollow and shaky, and beyond that a need to be with someone, to feel skin on skin, hands to hold him, closeness. The thought of going home alone frightens him; he's not sure what he'd do if he was on his own, maybe give in and take narcotics again, or drink himself into oblivion, or both.
He decides to stay over. Dana schedules their sessions on weekends now so that they can spend as much time together as they like, and has made it plain she welcomes his company. He's glad he doesn't have to return to his apartment. Since she stayed with him after the crane collapse it's less neglected and empty; he keeps basic supplies around now and does his laundry, cooks occasionally, even cleans a little. And yet it's still just a place where he goes to sleep and read his journals or work on cases, except when Dana comes over to stay. Then the quiet rooms come alive with music and talk and companionship, but when she goes away, the light leaves with her. Dana's home is different. It always feels to Greg as if it's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside-like a TARDIS, a conceit which gives him a secret kick of amusement. The light is there all the time, because she's there.
At the moment they take advantage of the delights of the master bathroom, which boasts the most incredible Jacuzzi he's ever seen. He and Dana are positioned in front of corner jets so that warm water swirls around their legs and backs. She drinks grey Riesling while he enjoys a shot of Booker's; Beethoven plays in the background, one of the quartets, a decent recording. She is settled in next to him, apparently content to be there despite everything that's happened, always a huge surprise to him. He can't imagine why she bothers, he's no prize by anyone's standard. And still, he's made progress, even he can see it. I've grown up, he thinks. I walked out of the closet of my memories, and I'm doing whatever I like. Except that's not true—he's moved ahead but not nearly that far, and both sessions today have proven it to him and to Dana too.
"What are you thinking?" Dana asks. Her voice is quiet, but pitched to reach him above the rushing water and music. Her fingers stroke the nape of his neck, an idle caress, tender and slow.
"That I'm not free," he says, more to himself than to her.
"Gregory." Dana sets her wine on the tiled edge of the tub. "You've just begun your work. Freedom isn't something you earn, like a good grade for a paper or a test. It's elusive, ephemeral. It comes to you when you least expect it." Her hand drifts down to rub his back in slow circles. He eases into her touch.
"You're speaking from personal experience," he says, intrigued.
"Yes." She tips her head back to look up at him. In the soft light she looks more beautiful than he's ever seen her, except when they make love. "Do you want to continue with the work?"
He remembers the terror of the blindfold, the overwhelming pain of old memories, the uncertainty of the future. "No." He sips his wine and slides his hand along Dana's arm. "But I'll do it anyway."