Thursday June 9th 2011

.

Short on time, I head into the first decent restaurant I see.

"This place will have to do. We don't have much time," I mumble, peeved that I let so much time get away from me at the show. This was the part of the evening I wanted the most time for.

Ella Fitzgerald is playing over the speakers, giving an intimate feel to our surroundings-dark tables and chairs, linen tablecloths, mirrors and white candles decorating the deep red walls.

"For two?" a young man asks, popping seemingly from out of nowhere.

"Please."

He gathers two menus and leads us to a table in the back, very private, which I am pleased at.

"We don't have long," I tell the waiter as soon as we're seated, "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, bernaise sauce if you have it, fries,"-Ana needs the calories-"and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list."

"Certainly, sir," the waiter says, appearing a little thrown by my order. He scurries away, and I just pray he relays the order correctly. I pull my Blackberry out of my pocket and place it on the table.

"And if I don't like steak?" Ana murmurs petulantly.

I sigh in exasperation. "Don't start, Anastasia," I plead.

"I am not a child, Christian," she insists, bullheaded and stubborn.

"Well, stop acting like one," I demand.

My words seem to upset her more, which I'm not surprised at, but I've held my tongue enough this evening.

"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" I can see that she's been wounded by my words, but I'm annoyed that our conversation has taken this trivial detour.

"For deliberately making me jealous," I explain. "It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?"

Interrupted by the waiter's return with the wine list, I press my lips into a grim line, glowering at her.

Her cheeks turn pink.

"Would you like to choose the wine?" I ask, mostly because I know she knows nothing about it.

"You choose."

"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please," I tell the waiter.

"Er..." he stammers, "We only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."

"A bottle, then," I snap at him. God, can't anything go my way this evening?

"Sir." He leaves, and Ana frowns at me.

"You're very grumpy," she observes.

I stare at her, expressionless. "I wonder why that is?"

"Well, it's good to see the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" Her lips turn up into a sweet smile.

I press my lips together again, but I can't fight the smile that wrestles its way onto my face.

"I'm sorry," I find the face to apologize.

"Apology accepted," she says, much to my relief, "and I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate."

"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point," I point out.

"There's that word again, 'moot.'"

"Moot," I say silently, and I sink into humor like a warm bath. I just can't stay angry too long around this woman. I run a hand through my hair, and decide to dive right in, composing myself. "Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I'm a little nervous. I've told you I want you back, and you've said... Nothing." I stare at her openly, and it's not lost on me that there's something in my face that must scream 'please.' I know I look desperate and imploring. There's nothing I can do about it.

"I've missed you... Really missed you, Christian," she says, "The past few days have been... Difficult." She pauses to swallow, and I see the anguish bloom on her face. "Nothing's changed. I can't be what you want me to be."

My stomach drops. She's trying to leave things as they are, right now. Does she not believe we could have a second chance?

Exasperation, also, surfaces at her words. Since when has she been anything less than perfect to me?

"You are what I want you to be," I insist, completely sincere.

"No, Christian, I'm not," she argues.

"You're upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you... So did you. Why didn't you safe-word, Anastasia?" I demand, and as I say the words, I can feel myself, and hear myself, getting angry again. Why the fuck didn't she safe-word?

She says nothing.

"Answer me," I command her.

"I don't know," she blurts, "I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know... I forgot," she breathes, and she appears chagrined. She shrugs meekly.

"You forgot!" I nearly cry, gripping the sides of the table for stability. "How can I trust you? Ever?"

The waiter, who is developing a rap for interrupting us at the worst times possible, arrives with our wine.

We sit staring at each other for a long moment, a stand down.

The waiter removes the cork with an over-pronounced flourish, pours a splash into my glass. I taste it on auto-pilot.

"That's fine," I tell the waiter.

He fills our glasses, leaves the bottle, and walks away without another word.

The entire time, my eyes have been glued to Anastasia's. I am absolutely baffled and appalled. How? How on earth am I going to be able to trust her if she simply forgot to safe-word? How am I going to know if I'm going too far? This is fucking paramount! There is nothing more important than this!

Anastasia breaks eye contact, reaching for her glass and taking a big sip.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Sorry for what?"

"Not using the safe-word."

I close my eyes. "We might have avoided all this suffering."

"You look fine," she notes.

"Appearances can be deceptive. I'm anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I'm in perpetual night here. You said you'd never leave, yet the going gets tough and you're out the door." I'm pleading with her now. Why? Why did you leave me? After you promised me you never would?

"When did I say I'd never leave?" she asks, clearly baffled.

"In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I'd heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax."

She doesn't say anything, only reaches for her wine.

I'm babbling now, pouring out what's left of my black and mangled heart to her.

"You said you loved me," I breathe. "Is that now in the past tense?"

"No, Christian, it's not."

Relief floods through me so potent I think I'll lose consciousness. It warms me to the very core.

"Good."

The waiter approaches with our food now. My eyes are glued to Ana's face as he sets it in front of us. It smells amazing, mouth watering.

Anastasia's eyes widen, just slightly.

"Eat."

She just stares at it, as if she's completely forgotten how to use a knife and fork.

Anger grows in me quickly, coagulating like a malicious tumor.

"So help me God, Anastasia, if you don't eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with sexual gratification. Eat!" I snap.

"Okay, I'll eat," she assures me. "Stow your twitching palm, please."

Her comment does not make me laugh, it does not even crack a smile. I only stare at her. She reaches for her silverware, lifting the knife and fork, cutting into her meat. She lifts the morsel to her lips and chews.

The relief is palpable, and I feel my shoulders loosen as I watch her take another bite.

Once she's taken a third bite, I pick up my own utensils. We eat in companionable silence, and I keep my eyes on her the entire time. I am filled with longing, anxiety, lust... To know that she still loves me, it makes me want to take on the world. It baffles me, how less than a week ago, those words out of her mouth shook me to the very core, they abhorred me, terrified me. Now, it feels very different hearing her say the words.

"Do you know who's singing?" she asks, the question stiff, forced.

I pause to listen, but I can't make out the artist. "No... But she's good, whoever she is."

"I like her, too," Ana agrees.

I smile to myself, noting some of the lyrics so I can decode the song later, so I can add it to her playlist. This morning, I bought the newest model of iPad for Anastasia-and one for myself-and ever since I've been adding apps and songs to it. Mostly songs. To try and explain how I feel about her. It's my take on hearts and flowers.

"What?" Anastasia asks.

I shake my head. "Eat up," I remind her.

At my elbow, my phone buzzes dully. A text from Taylor comes through, informing me that he's arrived in Portland.

She sits back for a moment, examining her food. She's eaten approximately half of everything, including the huge twelve ounce steak.

"I can't manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?"

I stare at her for a moment, surprised that her use of the word startles me. I glance at my watch. We're nearly out of time, and my heart sinks when I realize that now I'm going to need to take her home.

"I'm really full," she insists, taking another swallow of her wine.

"We have to go shortly. Taylor's here, and you have to be up for work in the morning."

"So do you," she points out.

"I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you've eaten something." I am satisfied with the state of her plate. She even has some more color in her face now, and she doesn't look so exhausted.

"Aren't we going back via Charlie Tango?" she asks.

"No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will pick us up. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?"

I signal the waiter and ask him for the check.

"Certainly, Sir." He heads off for it.

I speed-dial Taylor.

"Mr. Grey," he answers.

"We're at Le Picotin, Southwest Third Avenue," I inform him, and hang up.

"You're very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people," Ana tells me.

"I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia," I argue.

"You haven't gotten to the point this evening. Nothing's changed, Christian."

I take a breath. "I have a proposition for you."

"This started with a proposition," she says, skeptical.

"A different proposition," I promise her.

The waiter is back with the check, and I hand over my credit card without reading the total. As the waiter swipes it, my phone buzzes again. Taylor is waiting outside.

Once everything is finished, I turn my gaze to Anastasia.

"Come. Taylor's outside."

We stand from the table, and link hands.

"I don't want to lose you, Anastasia," I tell her, kissing the back of her hand, her knuckles, softly.

With that said, I lead her outside to the Audi. I pull the door open for Ana and she climbs in.

I head over to the driver's side, and Taylor steps out to speak to me.

"Listen to some music on the way home, will you? Puccini, perhaps," I request, "Anastasia and I would like to talk."

"Certainly, Sir. The earbuds are in the console."

"Great."

I turn to climb in beside Anastasia, and Taylor slips back into the driver's seat.

Taylor situates himself, turning some soft instrumental music on in back as well, and heads for I-5.

I turn to look at her.

"As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you."

She glances toward the driver's seat, clearly nervous about Taylor overhearing our conversation.

"Taylor can't hear you," I reassure her.

"How?" she asks, dubious.

"Taylor," I call. No response. "Taylor," I call again. Still nothing. I lean forward and tap him on the shoulder. Taylor removes his right ear bud.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Thank you, Taylor. It's okay; resume your listening."

"Sir."

"Happy now?" I ask Anastasia, "He's listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he's here. I do."

"Did you deliberately ask him to do that?" she asks.

"Yes."

Satisfied, she shifts toward me in her seat. "Okay, your proposition?"

Composing myself, I forge ahead.

"Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?" Because hands down, I couldn't do that. At least I think I couldn't. What I do know is that I definitely can't live without Anastasia in my life.

I can almost hear her lips pop open. "Kinky fuckery?" Her voice is high pitched and squeaky.

"Kinky fuckery," I confirm.

"I can't believe you said that."

"Well, I did. Answer me."

As expected, her cheeks turn bright pink in the dim light of passing headlights.

"I like your kinky fuckery," she admits in a whisper.

"That's what I thought," I say, though the relief is still staggering. "So what don't you like?"

Please, Ana, be open and honest with me now. Communicate with me.

"The threat of cruel and unusual punishment," she says, her voice still soft.

"What does that mean?" I ask, confused.

"Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me," she shares, "I don't want you to use them on me."

Internally, I flinch. Damn. This is going to be harder than I thought. But I can't show her that. "Okay, so no whips or canes-or belts for that matter," I add.

She stares at me for a minute, realization dawning. "Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?" she demands.

"Not as such, I'm just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don't like."

"Fundamentally, Christian, it's your joy in inflicting pain on me that's difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you'll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line."

"But it's not arbitrary," I argue, puzzled, "The rules are written down."

"I don't want a set of rules," she says.

No rules?

"None at all?" The concept is unfathomable to me.

"No rules," she confirms, shaking her head.

"But you don't mind if I spank you?" She's enjoyed that in the past.

"Spank me with what?" she asks.

"This," I say, raising my hand, palm out.

Visibly, she shifts in her seat. Hmm. "No, not really," she admits, "Especially with those silver balls..." She gets awfully quiet, and I wonder if she's blushing, in the dark shroud of night. I would not be surprised in the slightest.

I smirk, recalling the night with the Ben Wa balls. "Yes, that was fun," I agree.

"More than fun."

"So you can deal with some pain," I clarify.

I see her shoulders shift up and down, a shrug. "Yes, I suppose."

I stroke my chin, processing our conversation thus far. "Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do."

The longer she stares at me without speaking, the faster and stronger the anxiety builds. What will she say? Will she laugh in my face? Are my expectations, my ideals, totally and completely ridiculous, impossible to achieve?

I want to try her side of things, and though that territory is foreign and completely unfamiliar to me, I want Anastasia, and I think the fear and discomfort of trying it far outweighs the familiar lifestyle I'm so used to, and in the process of keeping it, losing Anastasia.

Yes, I must find a way to do this.

"But what about punishments?" she asks after a long moment of silence.

"No punishments," I shake my head. "None."

"And the rules?" she asks.

"No rules."

No rules. Hell, what am I talking about? What am I doing?

Making changes. For good. A good I don't know if I'm damn well capable of, but I'm definitely willing to try.

"None at all?" she demands, incredulous. "But you have needs."

I draw in a breath. "I need you more, Anastasia," I confess, "These last few days have been hell. All my instincts tell me to let you go, tell me I don't deserve you. Those photos the boy took... I can see how he sees you. You look untroubled and beautiful, not that you're not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It's hard, knowing that I'm the one who has made you feel this way. But I'm a selfish man. I've wanted you since you fell into my office. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I'm in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul."

My words hang in the chasm between us, and I hold my breath as I finish speaking. So she knows how I feel now. It's the closest I can come to saying what I so desperately want to say, but what I'm so absolutely terrified to say. I don't know if I'll ever be able to say it. What I do know, is that I can't live without her. She's changing me. For the better, maybe.

"Christian, why do you think you have a dark soul?" she asks, "I would never say that. Sad maybe, but you're a good man. I can see that... You're generous, you're kind, and you've never lied to me. And I haven't tried very hard. Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. I realized that I couldn't be the person you wanted me to be. Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. I do want to please you, but it's hard."

"You please me all the time," I insist, floored by her confession. "How often do I have to tell you that?"

"I never know what you're thinking. Sometimes you're so closed off... Like an island state. You intimidate me. That's why I keep quiet. I don't know which way your mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. It's confusing and you won't let me touch you, and I want so much to show you how much I love you."

I blink in the darkness, confused by her words. How could someone ever show their love for me by touching me? I don't understand how that would work at all.

Before I can begin to try to figure it out, she's unbuckling her seat belt and vaulting herself across the car at me, nestling herself into my lap.

She puts her hands on either side of my face, and in the swatches of light that zip by, I can see her eyes, intense and full of passion, focused on mine.

"I love you, Christian Grey," she confesses, "And you're prepared to do all this for me. I'm the one who is undeserving, and I'm just sorry that I can't do all those things for you. Maybe with time... I don't know... But yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?"

Oh, thank the heavens! She's said yes! She's giving me a second chance, a chance to really make things right! Despite all the things I want to argue with her about, I leave them be for now, and pull her to me, tight.

"Oh, Ana," I whisper, burying my nose in her hair, breathing her in.

We sit in silence for a long time, listening to the music, and just being. I run my hands up and down her back, feeling her breath wash over my neck every time she exhales. It's comforting. I feel very tranquil in this moment, very relaxed.

There is one thing, however, that I need to make clear, and though it pains me to say it, it pains me more not to.

"Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia."

"I know," she replies, not seeming too upset about it, "I wish I understood why."

No she doesn't.

But at the same time, she's been so open and honest with me, and if we're going to do things the way we plan them, then maybe she deserves to know some of went on in my childhood. I want to share myself with her, and if that includes the bad shit in order to give her all of me, I guess I'll have to share some of the bad shit.

I'm terrified of how she'll see me once she knows, but I push on with it anyway.

"I had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore's pimps..." I trail off, every muscle in my body tensing against the memory. I choke on the suddenly very visceral smell of cigarette smoke and cheap booze. "I can remember that," I hear myself whisper, and shudder. I run my fingers along the material of Anastasia's dress, reminding myself that she's here and I'm here, in the now.

Her arms tighten around my neck, and it helps to calm me, the physical feeling of her.

"Was she abusive? Your mother?" she asks. She sounds emotional, as if she's fighting back tears, and the realization makes me uncomfortable. Please don't cry for me, Ana.

"Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn't protect me from her pimp." I snort, realizing the ridiculousness of the situation. "I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us... I remember that."

Anastasia gasps, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions. The fear, the hunger...

"That's pretty fucked-up," she breathes.

"Fifty shades," I agree.

I feel her lips press against my neck, warm.

I tighten my hold on her and rest my cheek atop her head.

We fall into quiet again, and I am relieved that nothing catastrophic happened when I told her about my childhood. Everything is okay, and she didn't seem repulsed or scared off.

After awhile, I realize that she's fallen asleep, relaxed against me and her breathing has evened out.

I settle in for the drive, eyes on her slightly upturned face.