Page 24 of Compassion

“It’s like spooning except our legs are wrapped around each other.”

Fuck me…I would go intoanyenemy territory right now to do that for even a moment with her.

“Notour,” her hand frantically motions in the small gap between us, “legs, but like another person’s legs. Like whoever is sleeping with me legs. Legs that belong to the person in bed that isn’t me. Legs-”

“Picture painted, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment not only stops the panicked spewing but redirects us back to the subject. “All the bedding and pillows are on the couch. I had momentarily put them down to check on dinner.”

“You wanna check on it again while I get started on this?”

She enthusiastically nods and saunters off the direction of the kitchen, leaving me alone to relocate myself to the garage.

It doesn’t take much thought or effort to latch the pump to the mattress or get it going. The loud noise alongside the inflating action indicates I can take a moment to lean against the wall. Drink in my surroundings. Forget about the charming SOB she’s somehow resurrected out of me.

Seriously. I haven’t been this…social since Hiltz’s funeral. I thought having to hug his pregnant wife and apologize for being the one who made it out alive broke that capability inside. I hate to admit that Jaye’s proving otherwise. So…I won’t.

Warmth from the turned-on space heater continues to flood the three-car garage in an impressive manner while my eyes survey the area on the opposite side of the room, the one near the door we didn’t enter through. Several long tables occupy the territory, each one completely covered by thick, dusty gray sheets.

Cities. She said he liked to build model cities. That it was his hobby. That it was expensive. And when you combine that with this house, his preference for silk pajamas, and the extra set of Porsche keys I passed by on my way in here, it’s safe to conclude the guy had money. And once you add that to the way he disregarded his woman’s feelings, her needs, her…fucking…efforts to give a shit about him, the manifesto is clear. He wanted a trophy wife instead of a wife that was a trophy. Yeah, I know, the shit’s really none of my business, especially because we’re not really…friends. Or dating. Or fucking. But…shit. Never mind. Forget I even brought it. Distance is key here. I need to keep a distance. Stop letting me forget that.

About ten minutes later, I’m looking at the first chance to sleep in an actual bed I’ve had in the last three years.

Doesn’t fucking matter if it’s not a ‘real’ bed. It’s a real fucking bed to me. And beats the fuck out of the ones I used to have to fight for at the shelters when I still scavenged downtown.

“Sheets,” Jaye unexpectedly announces in a singsong voice that reminds me of a schoolteacher. “And two pillows.” She steps inside the garage prompting me to scurry to my feet to assist her. “They’re kind of big so I can only carry two at a time.”

Transferring the gear into my grasp happens prior to me suggesting, “Why don’t I start with these two and grab more after dinner if I need them.”

She happily nods in agreement and informs, “The lasagna’s cooling, so it’ll be just a few more minutes before we eat. Do you want bread to go with it? I sort of just assumed you wanted garlic bread and put a loaf in the oven, too. I actually just assume everyone eats bread with their pasta dishes but now that I think about it, I don’t remember there being any in theOn Top of Spaghettibook the PreK kids love so much.”

Aha. I knew she was a teacher. Good to see my observation skills are still sharp outside of scrounging for supplies.

“You um,” her shoulders innocently bounce during her return to the conversation at hand, “you obviously don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. I’m not gonna force feed you carbs.”

“Bread sounds great, Jaye.”

“Good. Good. Good,” she nervously repeats, hands fidgeting around her frame for somewhere to put them. “Did you want a glass of wine to go with your meal? I’ve got red. And white. And sparkling. And maybe a bottle of Rosé. Oh! I have grape juice if you’re not into that. And cran-grape. And bottled water. I always have bottled water. No soda, though. My mother periodically comes over to do a soda sweep, so I just learnednotto keep it on hand. Cuts down the lectures, too, and heaven knows that woman doesn’t need more things to lecture me about.” Her bottom lip briefly slips behind her top teeth. “Oh! Oh! I could probably make you iced tea. It’d probably take a bit, but I could give it a shot if you like?”

God, it’s like she can’t help herself no matter how hard she tries. Her mouth just starts running away and to be blunt about the shit, all it does is make mine want land on top of it to help slow it down. Fuck. Me. It’s been a really, really long time since I’ve been bombarded with this many goddamn hard-ons. I think my dick has done more pushups tonight than I did in basic training.

“Whatever you wanna pour me is fine.” Lowering the material to block my swollen cock since the pajama pants do nothing in that department is followed by a small throat clearing. “I’m good with whatever you decide.”

“But what is ityouwant, Archer?”

“Doesn’t matter what I want. What matters is what I’m given.”

“If what I like matters, then what you like matters, too.”

“I’m an inconvenience. I’ll take what’s provided.”

“You’re aguest, and it makes me happy to have you happy.”

All the air in my chest abruptly vanishes.

She considers me a guest? Like an actual…wanted person in her home? Her life? What the fuck is wrong with her? Why! Why would she want me of all people here? Is it pity? Is it…obligation? Did she run over a bunny and thinks this will make amends for it? What inclines her to be so fucking nice to me when the rest of the world won’t even look my way?

Unsure of what to say yet aware the mental spiral I just slipped down isn’t it, I quietly state, “Water.”

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