Chapter Thirteen

I was directionlessly nervous the afternoon that Baron was coming back to my house. In all ways. That we would or wouldn’t have sex. If we did, what would it be? If we didn’t, how much longer would I be waiting? 

And just the usual way that he made me nervous. The way he challenged me, the way he made me put my defenses up. The ways that he never wanted my defenses to be up with him. 

He wasn’t as late as he usually was. But that was just one other thing I didn’t know how to interpret. Surprised and cocking my ear when I heard a vehicle in my drive. Glancing at my watch and seeing that he was over an hour earlier than he usually was. Which meant he wrapped work at his office at least an hour earlier than usual. 

I stood at my screen door, hands in the front pocket of my apron, watching him come up the walk. Still carrying his briefcase. But that signaled neither that he would nor wouldn't do work this evening. He’d no doubt come straight from his office, just as he usually did. 

“Good evening, Elsbetta,” he said, coming into my house.

“Evenin,’” I squeaked. 

His knuckles underneath my chin again, he tipped my face upward and gave me a brief kiss on the cheek. I was suddenly able to so clearly picture mornings and nights with him. A passing kiss on my forehead while I cleaned up coffee cups, before he headed to the office. I already knew he was sitting at his desk about an hour before I was sitting at my own. And he came home hours after I usually finished my own work day. So he’d come home from a long day on Main street and give me a kiss on the cheek like I’d just gotten. With dinner waiting under the broiler. 

“How was your day, dear?” I asked, somewhat playfully, turning back to the kitchen. Before I could finish my exit, though, he fisted a hand in the back ties of my apron. 

“Long, productive, meaningful, distracted,” he said lowly. 

I turned back toward him, eyes and head rolling back to look at him closer. 

“Oh?” I asked breathily, feeling something different from the usual routine. 

“Yes, because I knew I was seeing you tonight,” he said, hands tighter and more tangled in my clothing. Drawing me closer to him. Now my apron ties were cutting into my waist, and he’d gotten a handful of the skirt of my dress as well, and it was drawn tight around my hips. Enough that I couldn’t work my legs or step away. 

“I’d like to indulge,” he said. “I want to do what I’ve spent my day thinking about. The thought of your skin, the soft and rounded parts of you, and making your light parts pink has preoccupied me nearly every waking hour today.” 

I melted into him and everything that had been tight went loose. His hands on me went gentle, the fabric around my waist went loose, the tightness in my jaw and joints all sank away. He felt it and smiled.

“Right,” he said, low and slow, still smiling. “Just like that.” 

He lifted me off the floor in an embrace then. I stiffened, frightened to be inches from solid ground. 

“No,” he said, in a patient and teacherly kind of way. “Stay with me, just the way you were. Keep giving in to me.” 

With intent, I relaxed. Letting his heat sink in to me in order to warm what had gone frozen. He felt me relaxing again and gave a rumbling sound of approbation. His hand at the small of my back, he tugged the skirt of my dress several inches upward, freeing my thighs. I took the hint, wrapping my legs around his waist. Once more getting that two-edged fright/attraction thing at how big he was. He didn’t take me far at all, just deeper into my front room, then sitting comfortably on my couch. Still holding me in his lap, legs still trapped around his waist. 

The last time I’d been held by a man was Zevi. And I had been crying. This was obviously different. I was acutely aware that Baron was between my legs. The only thing separating me from him was the flimsy strip of lace that was my underwear. 

Reaching between us, he started undoing the buttons at the front of my dress. Just a little shirtwaist dress. Unbuttoning to the waist and pushing the blouse off my shoulders. Making me gasp when he ran his thumbs across my nipples through my bra.

“Very cute, very sweet,” he said, nodding toward my chest. “I should have guessed you’d be all pink and white lace and cotton. I like to picture you oh-so good out in public but my nasty little girl when we’re at home.” 

I gasped again, dropping my hips into his lap. Locking his hands over my hip bones he pressed me even harder down on him. Instantly feeling myself clench and get wet. 

“Shall I undress you?” he asked. 

“Yes please,” I panted. 

“How do you feel about me punishing you for what a distraction you were to me today?” he asked. 

“Okay,” I said dumbly, both nervous and turned on in near-equal measure. 

Practically before I was done speaking I was caught in a whirlwind. Lifted off his lap and out of his arms and tumbled back over his thigh. My face and knees heavily pressed into the cushions of the couch, hips raised high over the saddle of his thigh. I took a deep breath, hands knotted in the fabric of my couch. Knowing from the position I was in that I’d likely be spanked. Which had never happened to me before. Just as quickly as I’d been deposited over his leg he flipped the skirt of my dress up and over the back of my head. 

I wiggled and squealed a little, feeling dreadfully exposed now. He cupped the back of my left thigh and I went still. Still in that mixed-up feeling of shame and desire. At once childish and lascivious. I raised my hips, expecting a blow, but instead he reached between my legs. I moaned, his index finger easily finding my split, rolling over my clit gently. He did this for a long time– until I was lost in it. No longer worrying about how I looked, or the position I was in or anything. Just chasing after his finger. That’s when the first blow landed on me and I squealed, sliding forward over his lap almost a foot. A second followed right after that. I felt the blood rushing to my skin, somehow both stinging and numbing. I was just starting to rock back on my knees when the third landed.

“Ow,” I squeaked, looking over my shoulder. 

“You can take one more that hard, without complaint,” he said. 

He did again, the stinging more pronounced at this point. Heat seemed to fill my eyes for a second. And then he went back to work between my legs again. It took me longer to warm back into it. I was right on the edge of coming when he stopped again. His hand at the waist of my underwear, he tugged them upward, exposing my buttocks now. I braced for another slap. But this time, maybe he knew or understood it had been too much earlier, and went softer. I was eased into it, this time. Feeling less shame because I could tell he was very turned on. And I liked that I could elicit that reaction from him. More spanking this time, but with far less power behind it, and it was more enjoyable. 

When he stopped again he shucked my underwear off, tossing it over the back of the couch. Lifting my dress over my head and tossing that in the opposite direction. Unsnapping my bra and throwing that away as well. 

“Good work,” he cooed, one hand on my lower back, the other touching my clit bare finally. “Good work. I knew you could do it.” 

He took his time, until I finally came all over his fingers. I panted and moaned, draped over his lap for less than a minute. He slapped my hip and I sat up on my knees, surprised. Now that I was off his lap, he started undoing his belt buckle. Biting my lip, more in excitement than anxiety I reached to help him. Unbuttoning and unzipping, helping him ease everything down.

“How do you want me?” I asked.

“Good girl,” he said again, as if surprised. 

His hands snapped out though, grabbing me bodily and depositing me firmly and unceremoniously on his punishing cock in one shocking move. I groaned on him, chest to chest, dropping my face to his cotton-covered shoulder. 

I’d come and was well-prepared, but it was so sudden, and he was buried so immediately and deeply in me that it ached. 

“Don’t act like you’ve never done this before,” he said breathlessly. Lifting my face off of him, kissing me quickly. 

“It’s just–” I said, wishing I could clasp my stomach in my hands. 

“You asked how I wanted you,” he said, both hands on my face, keeping me upright instead of leaning into him. “I want you bouncing on me.” 

Once I got moving, it was actually easier. Not feeling quite so filled and aching. Besides, I started to feel really good when he wrapped his arms around my waist, hands heavy and warm on my spine. Keeping me braced, making it easier to piston on him. I was just beginning to worry about hurt, about how irritated my buttocks were going to get, pounding into his slacks, and my knees getting tired, when he crushed me into his hips. Pressing himself deeply into me and coming viciously, with a low, frustrated sound. 

“Up,” he grunted, tapping the undersides of my thighs. 

I stood, stepping clumsily backward to dismount him. Legs shaking and weak. Hating that lonely and grasping feeling of the end of intercourse. I always wished men would give me a little longer. More time to acclimate to lovemaking being over. I guess maybe it was just uncomfortable for them. 

He tugged his shorts and slacks back up, but didn’t redo them. I watched this operation stupidly, hands spread over my lap to cover myself. 

Looking at me doing this, he laughed. Stood up himself and had me scooped into his arms again. I could have cried over the contact, it felt so good. He shifted me from being held like a puppy with my limbs dangling until he could carry me more comfortably newly-wed style. I clung around his neck, on the verge of tears. Grateful that he did understand that I couldn’t just be dumped on the floor. 

“Come on,” he said, heading toward my bathroom. “Time to do some clean up.” 

We did some clean up, and he finished getting redressed. I blotted my face, having retouched my makeup just before he came over. 

“Go get dressed for dinner,” he said, swatting at my backside. It didn’t have much power behind it, but it still stung. 

I listened to him making his way back out to the front room, and I went into my bedroom. Wondering if I was actually shaky, or just tired. I put on a new dress. Silkier underwear this time, though. I went out into my front room. He was already settled at the dining table, laptop already opened. I went to him, leaning around his shoulder, kissing his cheek. He turned his face, giving me a kiss back.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked jokingly.

I understood this was a ‘don’t you think it’s time for dinner?’ and went into the kitchen. 

Then the rest of the evening was the same as the other evenings. Dinner. Soft neighborhood talk– for which I was grateful. A little more work afterward, coffee. I guess I’d have to get used to fewer hours of sleep. 

I was once more hoping, though ‘bracing for disappointment’ that he’d at least lay on my couch with me for a bit before heading home. But he didn’t. He kissed me after he snapped his briefcase closed.

“Good first time,” he said.

At first, I thought he was asking. Then realized he was merely stating. I smiled up at him. 

“More later this week,” he said, smiling down at me.

“Yes, please,” I said, a little more confident about that. 

“Good night, Elsbetta.”

I went to take a nice hot shower right after he left. Picking up my scattered clothes from off the floor afterward. Exhausted. Curling into bed and wishing it wasn’t just my spare pillow I was holding.

Chapter Fourteen

Only a few days later he asked me to meet him on Main street for lunch. I was thrilled. Skipping out of the office and hopping the bus. I could walk there, but it would be a lot quicker to just take the town-loop. 

Nowhere special, just the breakfast and lunch diner a few doors down from his office. He had a table when I got there. A circle of men around him, talking at him as he nodded. When he saw me enter, he smiled, raising his hand. I watched as everyone turned to see who it was that he was waving at. Blushing and feeling very stared at. The men moved aside when Baron patted the table. I sat opposite him, setting my purse down.

“Hi,” I said, shyly, to everyone.

He raised his fingers toward the counter and a waiter bustled over. I opened my mouth to ask for water.

“Hush, Elsbetta,” Baron said. “She’ll have the same,” he said to the waiter, indicating his plate. 

I opened my mouth again, about to ask for just a half. It looked like he had a club sandwich on his plate. Which was just too much and too heavy for me for the middle of the day. If I had it my way, I’d probably just get a salad. But the waiter was already heading back to the kitchen. 

The crowd that had been around Baron sort of moved off, as if by silent command. We talked about nothing in particular for a while. Work, the morning. I was helplessly picturing being up in his arms though. Barely clocked into the conversation. Wondering how good it would feel to be carried out of the restaurant. Carried to bed. Held until I fell asleep. 

I could go anywhere with him, at any time of day, in any company, and be utterly safe. 

My lunch came over then. I started picking around it– I was right, some kind of club sandwich, piled high. Plus jojos and a pickle. I decided to just focus on the sandwich. Screwing around with the foiled toothpick while he talked.

“When I get back to the office, I’m going to send you some more work,” he said, plucking the pickle off my plate, taking a bite and setting it back down.

“Mm, okay,” I said, discarding some ham. 

“Hey-y, Betta!” I heard from up at the cash register.

Shifting slightly on the bench I turned to see Zevi, clearly just picking up some takeout. 

“Hey, man,” I called and then stood up. 

“Where are you going?” Baron frowned at me. 

“To say… Hi…?” I asked.

“He can come to us, you’re eating your lunch,” he said, still frowning. 

Zevi finished paying and then did indeed trot over. He smiled at me first and then flashed that bright look at Baron too. No motive in it, just glad to meet somebody. I stood up to Baron frowning yet again.

“Zevi, Baron, Baron, Zevi,” I introduced.  “Zevi just bought the old two-story down by the school. Baron runs an arbitration firm but more importantly is a massive driving force in the community.” 

“Oh, that sounds very serious,” Zevi said, holding out his hand to shake. They did for just a beat too long. I was wondering if Baron was crushing Zevi’s hand. He wouldn’t do that though– he was an adult. 

“Betta takes the neighborhood deadly serious,” Zevi said, still smiling at Baron, resting his takeout bag on the table. I wondered if he was on the verge of joining us. Sort of wished he would. “You’d do well to listen to her on the subject of the community.” 

“Elsbetta does necessary work,” Baron said. I could hear the coolness in his voice, but Zevi didn’t seem to. Still smiling, still at ease. Standing hip-popped in worn-in jeans and a baseball cap. He turned to me suddenly, studying my plate.

“Do you eat bread now?” he asked me, laughing at the massive sandwich on my plate. 

“Oh, I uh, well–”

“She doesn’t have to be careful about what she eats,” Baron said, looking critically from somewhere about my waist and then up at Zevi with a cocked eyebrow. 

“I’ve just never thought she liked it much,” Zevi said to him with a smile and a shrug. Turning to me, he added, “I’ve just never seen you eat it.” 

“Mm,” Baron murmured. 

“Well, I ought to get back to it,” Zevi said, literally tipping his cap at us after the silence spun out too long.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I said as he was turning around. Giving me just what he usually did– a smile and wave over his shoulder. 

“So who’s that?” Baron asked me.

“I’ve told you. That’s Zevi. He bought the lot. He’s been cleaning it out,” I said.

“What’s his intention? Being a landlord in the slums?” he asked archly.

“That’s part of the neighborhood,” I said slowly. “In fact it’s just a few blocks from my house.”

“I’m not the one calling the neighborhood a slum. I imagine that’s how someone like him thinks of it though. I bet the whole thing will be loose toilets, centipedes, cheap flooring and taped-together plumbing,” he said. 

“He’s not like that,” I said.

“Then what’s his intention?” he asked.

“He hasn’t told me,” I said. Instead of what he had told me which boiled down to “who knows.” 

“I don’t mean with the lot. I mean with you.”

I stared at him. He wiped his hand on a napkin. Ran his thumb over the edge of his water glass and took a long sip. Staring at me over the rim of the glass. 

“He doesn’t have intentions when it comes to me,” I said. “We met at the office.”

“Are you doing work for him?”

“He was referred to Rachel. I do work for her,” I said. Feeling something getting solid and firm inside me. Though I couldn’t name what it was. 

“Then what is he to you?”

“A friend,” I sighed, rolling my eyes.

He scoffed at me. 

“Finish your lunch,” he said.

I took a few bites. Feeling like I had to unhinge my jaw to eat the stupid sandwich. There was too much bread, it was too dry and everything was sticking to the back of my tongue. 

“What was that about?” I asked.

“What was what about?” he sighed back.

“That sound, you made, just now,” I said. 

“Elsbetta, you’re a smart woman. And I don’t like to have to play the experience card on you. But you seem to have led a sheltered life.”

He rolled his eyes. I pulled a piece of tomato out of the sandwich and started eating it. He sighed again, seeing that I didn’t have any response to that.

“I don’t want to do that older man thing at you,” he said. “But there’s not a man on earth who’s your ‘friend.’ It must be an intentional naïveté on your part to think that could ever possibly be the case.”   

I swallowed the tomato and switched to gnawing on my inner lip instead of eating food. Feeling my eyetooth slide and pierce my skin. Quickly licking over the wound. 

“Well then,” I said. “Trust to my intentions. I intend to be friends.” 

“Did I say I didn’t trust you?” he asked. “Are you giving me some reason to not trust you?”

“No,” I grunted, sinking my teeth into the same spot. A salty spill of blood swilling down my gums. 

“I don’t trust him,” he said. “And neither should you. Once again, I don’t want to sound like your daddy, but men lie. I was a young man myself once.” 

“Do you lie?” I shot back.

“I don’t have to,” he said. 

We fell silent. His seemed comfortable. Sipping water and watching me. I wanted to scream, you don’t even know him. I hated his intimation for so many reasons. Not least of all because he worked almost exclusively with men and yet he had such a low opinion of them. Cringing over the fact that this was the first time he pointed out the age gap between us and it was to leverage a false sense of wisdom against me. It would have proved his point if I even told him the truth. That Zevi had been unfailingly honest with me. What he wanted. But I also knew that until I told him otherwise, he could actually be hands-off. That I had no fear or worry of Zevi. Of all men in the world, I probably trusted him the most. That everyone else should trust him, too. 

“Thank you for lunch,” I said, getting up. Leaving a mangled three-quarters of a sandwich, half a pickle and nearly a full potato's worth on my plate.

“Thank you for meeting me, dear,” he said. “I’ll call you soon.” 

I was walking by Zevi’s lot one morning on the way to work when I heard him call my name from the upper story.

“What?” I yelled back.

“I’ll stop by with lunch!” he called.

“Good,” I screamed, walking backward, waving on my way to the office. 

By the time noon rolled around I was well ready for a break. Sort of tired. My whole schedule and routine thrown off recently. I didn’t really want to lose my early mornings of silence and productivity in the morning at the office. But maybe I’d have to start keeping different hours. Come in at nine or ten in the morning instead. To have those late nights with Baron. I’d thought idly of taking a nap in our supply closet a few times after having Baron to my place the night before. 

I knew Zevi would be in soon, so I found myself unwilling to dive into the next piece of work. Was just sort of leaning on my elbow, staring at my screen until it went blank. 

He finally came swinging through the door.

“‘Lo, ‘lo, Betta-baby,” he said, hefting a bag toward me. “Caesar salad and spicy shrimp?”

“Yes, please,” I said, pushing things to one side of my desk so he could sit opposite me. Turning to the fridge we hid behind my desk that had creamer for coffee and tea for clients, juice for me. Handing him a bottle as well. 

He picked on me for watching ‘scary’ stuff. I picked on him for re-reading the same old book for the millionth time. Eating shrimp with our fingers and passing paper towels back and forth. We fell comfortably quiet. Leaning back in the wheeled office chairs. 

“Well, he sure is tall,” he said, with the kind of sincerity one usually reserved for high praise. I laughed, I couldn’t help it. 

“That he is,” I agreed. “Not impressed?”

I asked that last part hesitantly. I knew what Rachel thought– even if she hadn’t said it directly. When we talked about Baron at all now, she kept it carefully professional. Talking only about his work, what she knew of him from organizations like the Rotary and the Jaycees. Nothing at all what she thought of him as a person. She’d stopped calling him Baron, even, and just called him Godsson. I stopped saying I’d had him over. If she said, “you look tired” I just said “I had a long night.” She stopped asking where I was going if I went out for lunch. 

We’d done this before– this avoiding a fight thing, and it made me anxious. Previously it was about political candidates. Or maybe phrasing in a proposal or tactics for a project. Things that we didn’t want to yell at each other about. We’d reach a compromise and drop the subject. But we’d never done it about something actually important. If I really thought she was making a mistake about something, I’d stand up to her about it. If she really thought a decision I’d made was bad, she’d chew at me. Never nagging or dismissive, just willing to have the conversation until we understood each other. But not now. 

I was worried I’d hear similar consternation from Zevi. Something that would make me less sure. 

“Oh, sure, well, don’t it take some focus to make sure you’re not always walking into door frames when you’re that size? That’s pretty damn impressive,” he asked jokingly. 

I rolled my eyes, leaning further back in my chair.  

“Zev,” I sighed. 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked sadly. 

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m angry about something.”

“What are you angry about?”

I sucked my cheek between my teeth and instantly released it. Wondering how to put it together. 

“He’s… I… Uh…” I puttered out. 

“Spit it out,” Zevi said.

“I think he wishes I didn’t have friends who are men,” I said slowly, knowing how bad that sounded.

For the first time, I watched Zevi bite his lip. I threw up my hands in a ‘wait, wait’ but Zevi spoke first.

“Did he… forbid you from–?”

“Oh, no, god, no. We’re adults. No, nothing like that just… And I wouldn’t accept such treatment anyway, from anyone…”

“But?” he prompted. 

“I think he doesn’t like men in general,” I said slowly. “He acts as if they’re these horny, untrustable, manipulative monsters.”

“Ah-ha,” Zevi laughed. “A classic ‘this man you’ve introduced me to thinks he’s being friend-zoned,’ eh?” 

“Yes!” I said. “Pretty much exactly that. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the lecture. I didn’t like the idea that nobody can view me as anything but a sexual prospect and–”

“He’s not wrong,” Zevi interrupted softly, halting my giddy agreement. “I will take you however it is you come to me. You make me glow as a friend. But I know I’d shine with you as my lover.” 

“Oh,” I said, frozen in my chair.

Then he grinned at me, once again that bubble of tenderness or honesty being broken up and floating off in a hundred directions when he got silly again.

“But don’t tell him that. I think he could swallow both of us whole with room for ice cream,” he said. 

“Good lord, Zevi,” I groaned, laughing myself. 

“Just calls ‘em like I sees ‘em,” he said, pushing the last shrimp toward me.

Things sort of settled into an uneasy peace. Partially, everything was peaceful because I was so often tired. I wasn’t adjusting well to Baron’s hours at all. To be fair, he didn’t seem to handle them well either– a chronic workaholic who got short-tempered easily and over-committed himself. Which was hypocritical of me to say– I had all the same patterns. 

He did well taking his time and breathing with me, though. Telling me several times that his moment of peace was walking through my door and smelling dinner. He had a tendency to clench his jaw when he was tired or frustrated. He’d let me rub his face. That was the closest I got to the kind of non-sexual physical affection I wished I’d get. Sex was infrequent, sometimes fun and often overwhelming. 

He had bought me three sets of lingerie, bringing them all to me. Nothing I would have picked for myself. I wouldn’t have picked anything that would have pleased him, though. I was both disturbed and deeply touched by how well everything fit. Picturing him laying his hands on me and remembering– how many spans of his palm were my hips, just how did my breast fill his hand, how he could so easily circle my throat, wrists and ankles. 

We both liked it if I was wearing a set under my usual clothes. He liked to take me out of pencil skirts and linen shirts and fit and flare dresses and uncover red lace, purple straps, elastic and steel rings. 

I liked feeling different than I usually was– in a costume, making me so not… me. I liked how it made him different, too. Less measured, less in-control. I’d lose myself in his whirlwind sometimes. Feeling tossed and loosed and… subsumed. Sometimes afterward I couldn’t quite remember every detail– just broad strokes, sensations. We never talked about sex again. He never asked me again what I liked. 

I just wanted him to want me. Usually, I was pretty sure he did. Sometimes I got the uncomfortable sensation that it wasn’t me, not me as I was, that he wanted. He wanted some projection. He liked the apron, the dinner, the little woman sitting beside him. He liked the black push-up bra under the pastel pink dress. He liked lifting me and pushing me down on his erection. He liked flattening me underneath him on my couch. 

I liked his big hands on me. I liked when he lectured. I liked when he smiled at me across the table. I liked when he patted the top of my head when I asked, “good enough?” I loved talking neighborhood and “remember when…?” I liked his brisk, singular nod when I finished work and handed it back to him. I liked his grave, “good evening, Elsbetta” and how he’d rush through the door at me when he wanted me. 

We talked occasionally about the future. Or, he would make vague pronouncements. I became obsessed after he said, “we ought to consider marriage, soon– in a year or so.” I heard myself saying, far too frequently, “when we’re married–” about everything. “When we’re married, I can prep your notes in the morning… When we’re married, I can spend the weekend in lingerie for you... When we’re married, I can make you breakfast… When we’re married, I’ll make sure to keep cake in the house for you.” 

He would smile. Nod. He would usually sigh when he talked about the future. “We’ll have to get a bigger place when we’re married… We’ll have to find a big enough place for the ceremony and reception– we’ll both have a lot of guests… You might well want to consider going part-time at work.” 

I knew he was serious about this future talk because I began to be a meaningful fixture in his life. Not just making him dinner twice a week, or bringing him lunch, or doing more and more projects every week. But beside him. I began being his date for functions, his plus one to all things. I was his woman taking notes at meetings. His date to weddings. The person standing beside him at memorials. If it was a public affair, I was there. A constant tornado of being introduced. Just his serious, “this is Elsbetta,” while I shook hands with someone. He even introduced me if the person in question already knew me.

Sometimes I’d get a sort of giggling panic about that. As if something ephemeral but meaningful were being erased. That my business card wouldn’t say ‘Betta’ any more. That when I answered the phone, when my name was called at the dentist, that the justice of the Peace would call “Elsbetta” and for a moment I wouldn’t know who they were talking about. Panicking worse when I spun the future out further. No longer Betta Bouchard, signing off things as BB but Elsbetta Godsson— everything I was quite gone. 

I liked being beside him– safe and relaxed and thoughtless. I could never quite remember where the car was parked when we were far afield. Never had to check name tags to see what table we were at. I just followed him. I’d wrap my left hand around his right forearm and follow. When we sat in pews or in the lecture hall at the nearby community college or floated around the fundraisers in some banquet hall, I just held on and followed. 

When questions were directed at me, I’d find myself looking up and to the side. Fingers wrapping around him a little more firmly, eyelashes brushing my eyebrows. I saw he smiled when I did that. So I kept doing it– chasing the smile. 

I wished there was still someone I could introduce him to. I had a few far-flung cousins and my father’s siblings and their spouses. But no one we had been close to. My mother died young. My father had died just a few years ago. No siblings, never knew any of my grandparents. His mother was dead, his father was incommunicado. He was likely to say that this orphan-state we found ourselves in was good. That our attention wouldn’t be split, we wouldn’t have to explain ourselves or travel from place to place or face any objections or interference from anyone. We could have the wedding just the way we wanted without being hindered by others. 

I didn’t want an obstacle thrown up. I just wished… someone was there to discuss things with. Little things, silly things– the wedding dress– white? What kind of dress? From where? And the big things– him? Yes, him? Am I right? Is it good?