“I need attention,” I called into the empty hallway.
I was sprawled out on the sofa, wearing nothing but a baby-blue silk chemise. I clutched a half-empty wineglass by its stem, swirling it in small circles. I watched the liquid rise and fall, waiting.
The wind outside was fierce. The trees shook with a veracity that paired well with my unsteady and desperate need for adoration. It felt so much a part of me that, for a moment, I wondered if I was the creator of the wind. “Jack!” I whined.
Jack appeared from the kitchen, carrying a platter of cheeses and cured meats. Placing it on the coffee table, he tilted his head, looking me up and down. “Babygirl.”
“I need attention,” I repeated, rolling into my side. My hair fell into my eyes but I didn’t brush it away.
Moving toward me, he knelt in the space between the coffee table and sofa, tucking the unruly hair behind my ear. “Look at you. My little blue princess.”
He ran the tips of his fingers along my bare toes. “Okay, tell me where it hurts.”
I let my head hang off the edge of the couch, observing him upside-down, his fingers still on my thigh. “Everywhere.”
Jack chewed his bottom lip and when he released it, the pink skin remained white for a second. “Well, we’re going to have to do something about that.”
He touched my ankle, smiling the way he often did where his teeth were exposed but the corner of his mouth remained slightly lowered. “Here?”
I nodded, pouting.
He kissed my ankle tenderly.
Dragging his fingers to my knee, he glanced at my face, his eyebrows lifted. “Here?”
I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “Mhm.”
He kissed each kneecap, his curls brushing against my outer thighs, tickling ever so slightly.
Continuing upward, his fingers rested on my inner thigh. “Here?”
I craned my neck out of its twisted position to see him. “Especially there.”
Jack guided his lips to my thigh and gave it little kisses all over. His mouth was wet and warm. His face was strawberry flushed in small, concentrated blotches.
“I’ll be right back.” He stood, extending his pointer finger before disappearing around the corner. “Don’t you dare move,” he called, out of sight.
I felt like molasses dripping on the couch, amorphous and sticky.
Jack returned with my wooden hairbrush in his hand. He shifted me into a seated position, sat down behind me, and began brushing my hair in long, fluid strokes.
I was suddenly staggered and deeply touched. Saddened without fully understanding why.
“Jack?”
“Hm?” He stopped brushing and I turned toward him.
I realized the room had gone dark. I reached for the lamp’s chain and tugged, illuminating the space. “Did I tell you about my mother?”
He chewed his bottom lip again, then shook his head. “What about her?”
My throat was dry, my lip trembled as I tried to curl it open. I knew what I had to say. But as I dug to find my voice, a forceful gust hit the front door, rattling the knocker, as if someone were trying to get in.