I freeze in my tracks as Abigail curses at me. I turn slowly, in the process of removing the condom. She stares at the mess in my hand and I sense that once again I have made a foible.
“Are you fucking leaving?” she seems very clear that I should not, so I sit back down on the bed.
“I had planned to go into the bathroom and wipe off,” I tell her. “But I can wait if it makes you more comfortable.”
Her face softens. “Oh.” I see tears well up in her eyes and I grind my teeth, searching my memories for a comparable situation and the proper response.
“I should have told you that’s where I was going,” I say. “I realize now you are still upset about how I abruptly left earlier this evening.”
I see her shoulders sink a bit in relief and know that I’m on the right track with this line of honesty. “I would reach out for you and comfort you,” I say, “except that I have semen on my hands from removing the condom.”
Abigail snorts in laughter. I feel better, like I can perhaps salvage this evening successfully. “Go on and wash up,” she says. “And then come back to me.”
After I wash my hands and return to the bedroom, I see she’s crawled beneath the covers, folded down one side. I hesitate. Are we going to sleep? Are we going to rest and then have sex again? I clear my throat and announce, “Archer only put one condom in my wallet.”
“I don’t want to talk about your brother, Hunter. Come and hold me, would you?”
I slide into bed beside Abigail, reveling in the strangeness of her wanting to press her body close to mine. And my enjoying this sensation. “To clarify,” I start, “would you like me to stay here all night?”
“I would, yes.” Abigail takes my hand and rubs her thumb along my knuckles. It feels so nice. So intimate.
She reaches to turn off the light and soon, her breathing slows. I drape my arm over her side and, given this unhindered access and express permission to touch her, I study her in the moonlight. I let my fingers learn the rise and fall of her chest with her breath, the shape of her curves.
I think back on our experience together, how I seemed driven by instinct I did not know I possessed. Everything we did tonight was foreign to me, and yet it felt so familiar. As if I were somehow constructed just to please Abigail.
“I can hear you thinking,” she says, rolling over to face me in the bed.
“You can?”
Abigail smiles. I like when she smiles—I don’t feel as though she is making fun of me, but rather that she is delighted by the things I say. “I can’t actually hear your thoughts, Hunter, but I can sense that your mind is working overtime.”
“How can you sense it? What are the signs?”
“I know you want to analyze this stuff and store it away in that brain of yours to use as a datapoint for future human interactions,” she says, tracing a finger around my chest in a way that brings attention directly to my hardening cock. “But Hunter, I’m in a post-orgasmic coma right now and I just can’t.”
“Hmm,” I decide to run my fingers through her hair. It’s long and dark and full, and it always smells like hair. I’m used to women who pile on products until the layers of scent overpower my thoughts. “I was thinking,” I tell her. “It seemed like I was able to…please you…”
“Definitely.”
“Well I could feel it. I could feel your body responding to me.” She opens her eyes to meet mine as I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles. I had no idea the knuckle had so many nerve endings until Abigail started stroking mine earlier. “I’ve been lying here thinking about how easily I interpreted your cues. And how good that felt.”
“You made me feel so damn good, Hunter.”
A long time passes as my mind continues to race. “I wasn’t a very good husband, Abigail. But I would very much like to be a good partner for you. If you are interested in that.”
I wake up ready to have sex again, but we still don’t have another condom. My instinct is to get out of bed and walk to the drug store to get some, but I realize if Abigail wakes while I’m gone or in the process of leaving she will not know how to interpret those actions. I decide to just stare at her while she’s sleeping, her face caught in a light smile.
I feel like I’ve waited my entire life to figure out what it means to desire someone like this, to feel the connection that my parents speak of. When Abigail and I were together last night, I felt like I was pouring a bit of my soul into her along with my release. I am a different person today than yesterday, if that seems possible. I never had this with Heather. I see now that I should not have married her, that comfort and familiarity are no replacement for real connection with another person.
At the same time, I realize that Heather could not have felt real connection with me, either. Knowing she stayed with me for convenience…or profit or fame…eases the sting of regret that has been growing the more I realize I was not a good husband to her.
“Your thoughts are busy again.” Abigail wakes and kisses me softly.
“I was trying to decide how to go to the drug store without upsetting you.”
“Maybe we should go on our way back from the coffee shop.” Abigail’s words drift off as I rock my hips against her involuntarily. My blood races as we kiss for a few minutes before Abigail pulls back. “We better go before things get desperate.”
She climbs out of bed and begins to dress, bending to get a pair of pants from her bottom drawer. “Abigail, I need to inform you that things will always be desperate, as you say, when it comes to you.”
She looks at me over her shoulder, still bent over, and I can feel my erection pulsing against my stomach. “Really?”
I nod. “I’ve been having impure thoughts about your backside. And your breasts.” She laughs and throws my jeans at me.
Walking through town with her feels nice. Familiar and not overwhelming. I don’t need down time to rest after spending so much time around her, because I don’t seem to need to work as hard to figure out how to interact with her. As long as I verbalize my thoughts, Abigail seems very content, even to enjoy spending time with me.
I find I don’t want to keep my hands off of her, and I let my fingers trail up and down her back, stroke through her hair while we wait in line for coffee for Abigail. The barista’s gaze lingers on us, and I know there will soon be an article about us in the Oak Creek Gazette, but I don’t mind. Let them speculate. Let the newspaper brag that Hunter Crawford is romantically involved with Abigail Baker.
We spend the morning together making use of our drug store purchases until my body feels chafed and exhausted. I confess to feeling some relief when she tells me she has to meet with the Autumn Apple committee and I retreat to my lab on campus. Alone with my slides and my computational algorithms, I lose myself to the closest thing I’ve ever found to meditation. I experience utter clarity and laser focus. A series of orgasms has certainly relieved any buzzing restlessness I was experiencing. By the time I emerge from my data, it’s growing dark.