Page 52 of Light in the Dark
FELIX
This is a confusing set of sensations.
On one hand, she's naked in my arms, soft skin silk smooth and warm, her big lush tits pressed against my chest and draped on my arm, knees drawn up to present her ass in a broad, intoxicating curve that my hand naturally rests upon as I hold her; yet, on the other hand, she's bawling raggedly, her whole body wrenched with sob after sob.
There's nothing I can do or say, so I just hold her. Rub her arms, caress her thigh and ass, nuzzle the top of her head and inhale her scent.
I lose track of time again, and this time she doesn't fall asleep. She slowly calms down, the wracking sobs subsiding to hiccuping whimpers. Her hand rests on my pec, curled up like a sleeping sparrow. Her breath washes warm on my skin.
"His name was Richard Declan James," she whispers. "But everyone, his parents included, called him Dutchie. The story, as he told it to me, is that his grandmother, who was from the Netherlands, made Dutch Apple turnovers one day when he was four or five. He loved them so much he ate six or seven of them and got sick, but even after that, whenever his grandmother came to visit he demanded she make dutchies, as he called them. It became a whole joke in the family, and they all started calling him Dutchie, and it stuck."
"His name was Rick James?" I ask.
She sniffs a tiny laugh. "Yes. The other reason he went by Dutchie." She shivers. "I'm cold."
I shimmy and tug the blanket out from beneath us and drape it over us, settling it on her shoulders. She grips the edge, tucks it under her chin, and then settles her curled-up hand on my chest once more.
"I met him when I was twenty. A year after Mom died."
"How'd she die?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Forgot I didn’t tell you—I told Faye. Um. She was a Phishhead. Like, as a lifestyle. I grew up nomadic, living in that same van out there, following Phish around the country. I was homeschooled by Mom's friends—by her commune. She was a real deal hippy, smoked pot, sold drugs and merch to make ends meet. When they weren't touring, we'd stay in a long-term rental hotel and Mom would get a real job and save up for the next leg of the tour, or we’d head to Florida to spend time with GramGram. But mostly, we were on the road.”
"Jesus—for real?"
She nods. "For real."
"That's…kinda crazy."
She sighs. "I know. But it was my life. I've never stayed in a real actual house for more than a few weeks. I've never owned a TV."
"So living in your van is just…normal for you."
"Exactly." A long sigh. "So, when I was nineteen, Mom cut her leg somehow at a show. It got infected, like a staph infection or necrotizing whatever it's called. Fasciitis… something like that. I don't know. The show was in the country, way out in the middle of nowhere, far as fuck from a hospital, which she wouldn't have gone to anyway, since she hated the government, hospitals, doctors, all of it. It happenedsofast, Fee. She got cut, didn't think anything of it, started feeling sick, and then by the time we realized how serious it was, it was too damn late. She died not even a week after it happened."
"Fuck me, that's awful," I murmur. "I'm so sorry."
"It was awful. I was so lost. She was my life. I went where she went. Did what she did. Her commune was my family. And then she was just fucking gone in the blink of an eye and I was alone in the world. For most of a year, I just wandered around the west coast from San Diego to Seattle, doing nothing, going nowhere, just…lost." A pause, rife with the weight of her memories. "I ran out of money outside Portland, so I lived in the bus and found work at a farm. Dutchie's family's farm. They grew hops for a local brewery and raised goats and pigs. I was sad and lonely, and Dutchie was an only child. So we…clicked. It became a romance. He was patient with me, and god, I needed patience. I was angry and shut down andsosad, and I liked him but I didn't know how to—" she shrugs. "How to express it. He drew it out of me. I lived on their farm for a year and a half, and in that time Dutchie and I…became a couple, I guess. His family accepted it, accepted me, took me in. Showed me kindness. But I got restless, and when I told Dutchie I wanted to leave he decided to come with me. He'd been talking about leaving home for a while, and I gave him the excuse. So we left together."
"What was he like?" I ask.
I feel her mouth curve with a private smile. "Sweet. Endlessly sweet. He was kinda short, only five-eight. Slender, but strong—he was a farm boy. Sandy blond hair, brown eyes. Real puppy dog eyes. The boy had a smolder for the ages—he could convince me to do just about anything with this look he'd give me. He knew it, too, and definitely took advantage of it."
I chuckle. "I bet he did."
She tilts her head to look up at me. "Does it upset you? Hearing about him?"
I shake my head. "Not at all."
"Sure?"
"Absolutely. You can tell me anything."
Another thoughtful sigh. "He was a virgin when we met, and because of how I was, we didn't sleep together until after we left his farm."
"How you were? What does that mean?" I ask.
"I've identified as a demisexual for a long time."
