Day 37

"Ahh, Jon," said Dr. Polkiss. "What can I do for you. What's this you got here?"

"Uhh... My two weeks' notice," said Jon sheepishly.

"...Oh," said Dr. Polkiss.

"I, umm. Well, technically it's 13 days' notice, because Dr. Chandakar wants me to start Monday after next, but I wasn't able to get in touch with him until yesterday, so..." Jon shrugged. "I got it together as fast as I could. I've actually never written a two-weeks'-notice before, I hope it's okay."

Dr. Polkiss had the letter out and was glancing over it. "It doesn't really have to contain anything except a statement that you're getting out... There aren't actually any rules for it, besides the traditional ones for all business writing... Spelling and punctuation and all that. And you seem to have used those..."

"In what? Is he writing a novel?" Stephanie Leyton swept in, looking (like she always did) as though she'd just stepped in from a glamour magazine. She peered over Dr. Polkiss' shoulder. "...Oh." She sighed. "Well, I knew we were going to lose you eventually. You've got a lot to offer, you're wasting yourself here. Our loss, someone else's gain. Where're you going?"

Jon explained the job offer Brandon had suggested. "So I got in touch with the person he suggested—Dr. Aaron Chandakar—and he did in fact have the sort of opening which had been described. They're understaffed and ready to expand. There's a lot more chances for promotion—"

"And raises," Dr. Leyton said.

"—yeah, and raises," said Jon. "And, what with prices going up and Caitlyn to think about... She's doing the scholarship runaround, but... Well, suffice it to say that extra money would be really nice right now. And it's never too early to start saving. We've been talking about maybe having to get another car... We might have to move at some point... You know, a place of our own, instead of having to rent or lease..."

"There might be an addition to the family," Dr. Polkiss said.

"Oh God, don't talk about that," Jon exclaimed.

"Well, it's what marrying is for, right?" said Dr. Polkiss.

"Yeah, but... Christ. I'm not even twenty-five yet," said Jon. "And Caitlyn just turned 21 two days ago. And our bank accounts aren't nearly in the... If it happened..." He thought about Chamberses, to whom it had happened. They were surviving, yes, but that was about the best that could be said for them.

"Better invest in birth control then," said Stephanie. "They say birth control is expensive, but you know what's more expensive? Baby."

"True enough," said Jon.

"God, it's so crazy," Stephanie said. "Here you are, neither of you twenty-four, and you're already starting to think about kids and, and buying your own house, and... My God. I'm thirty-two and I'm not even to that point in my life."

"Well, if you wanted to get your own place," Jon started. "I mean, the housing market is a mess right now, so..."

"No, it's not that," said Stephanie. "I just... God, I dunno. I remember when Caitlyn could come in here, and I would look at the two of you together and think, 'What the hell is wrong with this mom? Doesn't she know real, honest, genuine love when she sees it? How could you not be happy that your kid had found that?'"

"Well, attempting to link 'sanity' with 'Caitlyn's mom' leads to a lot of frustration," said Jon.

"I know, but... I mean, you know? It's not easy to find someone who's gonna... Who will work towards that with you. I mean, I know for a fact that if Caitlyn said she wanted... I dunno, if she wanted to move to Chicago or something... You'd work with her towards that. I mean, maybe you'd try to talk her out of it first, but, assuming it was a smart move, then... You'd support her. You care about what she thinks, what she wants... You share her dreams."

"Why, Stephanie," said Dr. Polkiss. "I hadn't known you went in for the romantic stuff. Whatever happened to 'Single, independent and proud of it'?"

"I know, I know," said Stephanie, shaking her head. "And it's still so much easier to be single, to not have to... To not have someone constantly hounding you over when you're coming home, and why didn't you do the dishes, or have to kick his ass about leaving the toilet seat up, or... Or any of that. But at the same time... I mean, who do you fall back on? Who's going to look after you? When you're down, or when you're sick, or... Who's gonna put a smile back on your face?"

She sighed, her shoulders slumping.

"Well, Stephanie..." said Dr. Polkiss. " 'Single, independent and proud of it' doesn't have to be a permanent decision. You still have time to change your stripes."

"I know, but... Where's the guy, you know?" Stephanie said. "All I get is just... You know, one-night stands. And then people who're... I mean, you ask them where they're going tonight, and they get all defensive, like, 'What business is it of yours, why do you care where I'm going?' And I'm thinking, 'Well, if I didn't care before, I sure do now.' You know, people who... People who don't..."

"Who don't want to be tied down," said Dr. Polkiss.

"Kinda like you?" said Jon, smiling at her.

"Well..." said Dr. Leyton. "I mean, yes, there are things I don't want to be bothered about. But there are others that... I mean, it's not all-or-nothing, you know? There are things I want to be able to do where my husband says, 'Okay, that's fine, don't worry—' "

" 'Husband'??" said Dr. Polkiss.

"Well, yeah, that's where it's going, isn't it?" said Stephanie.

"Perhaps, but you've never expressed any such desire before," said Dr. Polkiss.

"Doesn't mean it isn't there," said Stephanie. "And besides, like I've ever met a guy who was even vaguely right for it."

"Fair enough," said Dr. Polkiss, who had been grumbling (quietly) about Stephanie's tastes in men for as long as Jon had known them. "Go on."

"Well, I want... God, I dunno. I mean, how come you can't find a guy that isn't co-dependent and isn't commitment-phobic? Isn't there someone in between? Either they're all over your business or they don't want to be bothered."

"Those guys do exist," said Dr. Polkiss. "Jon, for instance."

"Yeah, well, no offense, Jon, but I don't think you and I would work out," said Stephanie. "You're still too far on the 'co-dependent' side for me."

"Fair enough," said Jon, grinning. "Stephanie, it sounds like you just have to find the right guy. You can't be the only person out there who wants part-freedom, part-independence. You just gotta find the others who are like that."

"Oh, right," said Stephanie, whose tone of voice made clear her opinions of success for such an endeavour. "Where?"

"Well, not bars, for one," said Dr. Polkiss. "Not clubs. Well, maybe clubs, but in general those places are filled with people from your former lifestyle—which you just said isn't right for you anymore."

"Where?" Stephanie said, sounding desperate.

"The gym maybe?" Jon said. "At least, people there are likely to be a little more serious."

"Yeah, but, they're all married," Stephanie protested. "They all come in with their wives or their girlfriends."

"All?" said Dr. Polkiss. "You can't find a single one who isn't tied down somehow?"

"Well, maybe not all..." Stephanie said.

"Then there's hope," said Dr. Polkiss simply.

"But... God, I'm so old! And compared to you guys... I mean, here's Jonathan, getting married at..."

"Well, Jonathan's a special case," said Dr. Polkiss. "Peggy got married when she was twenty-nine. I got married when I was thirty-three, and even back then that was a pretty normal age for it. You've still got a year to go, even by old-fogey standards like ours." He grinned. "Just because it hasn't happened yet, doesn't mean it never will."

Stephanie shook hair back from her face, sighed and nodded.

When he had a spare moment, Jon sent Caitlyn an e-mail: I need to remember, every day, to be thankful that I found you. He knew it would make her smile to read it, and that made it worth doing.

Nothing much happened at work—the same parade of people, the same procession of cavities and bad flossing and halitosis—but as Jon packed up, he remembered that today was Tuesday, and that they were supposed to head off to this week's installment of the Larson college group. He wasn't sure he was looking forward to it. The first week's meeting and discussion had been very good, of course, but was that going to be a fluke? No matter how much exposure he had to Caitlyn's idea of a good church (and, to be fair, it was quite a good one in his experience), he could never be entirely trustful of an organized religion or its governing members. He had heard too many preachers say too many stupid things in the name of their faith.

He knew he was being reluctant, of course. If part of being a Christian was to be open to new experiences, he wasn't doing a very good job of it. That didn't generally stop him from trying other things in life—Brandon's job suggestions, the GEA fiasco, new things in bed with Caitlyn (especially those)—but when it came to the church, he was curiously conservative, and he knew himself too well to be able to lie about it. For some reason, I'm just not comfortable there. And I don't know why.

When he got home, he found Caitlyn curled up on the couch, working her way through a textbook. This was sight enough to drive all other thoughts from his head. She was dressed in dark canvas pants and a sleek woolen sweater, warm but still molded to her curves. Her dark hair curled around one ear, making commas against her pale skin. She was beautiful to his eyes, more beautiful than anything else he had ever seen, and it was a scary and exciting thing to know that this girl, this woman, was entrusted now to his care.

I need to remember, every day, to be thankful that I found you.

Something in his gaze must have tickled her. She looked up. "What?"

The moment was gone. Jon shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing important."

"Long day?"

"Too long." Any day away from you is too long.

"Well, there's leftovers in the fridge, so if you wanna take a nap or something before we go—"

"I love you," he said, unable to hold the words in any longer.

Caitlyn blinked, and then gave him a wry smile. "Well, good thing, because if not, it'd be rather inconvenient to be married."

"I love you, Caitlyn."

"I love you too, Jon," said Caitlyn, still with that wry smile, "but I'm starting to wonder if you got enough sleep last night."

Jon wasn't sure what he had been trying to accomplish, but he was quite sure this wasn't it. He wobbled back and forth for a minute, trying to decide whether to push any further, and then gave up and went to check his e-mail. Presently Caitlyn put aside her text and broke out the leftovers; dinner happened, and they talked as normal, and Jon didn't give any more thought to it. It wasn't until much later that he realized in his brain what his heart had already known: that he had been looking for some sign of love or affection; some indication that, if he asked, she would put the book down and come say hello. And that, for the first time in their marriage, she hadn't.

Nonetheless, from some instinctive understanding of the situation, Jon didn't push her, and the conversation was light but meaningless until they got to the Larsons' house and the meeting started.

Though he had only been there once before, Jon felt a strange sense of homecoming. Part of it was that the home was so inviting—the home, and the people who lived there. Alice Larson greeted them both—greeted him—like a long-lost friend, and her husband was scarcely less welcoming. And many of the "kids" greeted them the even more warmly—Max Lapinski, Missy Sloane, Alisa Bergen. Jon wasn't entirely sure what he'd done to befriend them to such a level. Or was this just how they greeted everyone? Jon, who had grown up primarily in the company of his sister's cats, was still acclimating to the kind of people who preferred dogs.

Caitlyn's family keeps a dog. And yet Caitlyn... Look at her. She hasn't taken to all this hugging and air-kissing and stuff either. Heck, I think I'm more comfortable with it than she is. Of course, they don't do the air-kissing thing on me. Jon had never understood that gesture in the first place.

It was a warm but frantic five minutes, of course, as everyone got back in touch with everyone and caught up on recent events. Everyone wanted to know how he was doing, what had happened since the last meeting, as if it had been months and not seven days. Long-lost friends is right. I wonder how this came about? He'd never met any group or organization that greeted in quite this particular manner. Certainly Max and Alisa and Missy and Pastor Larson and Alice Larson all felt that nothing special had happened to them this week. Jon wasn't sure that anything special had happened to him either—at least, not anything really worth saying. The weird little... incident... earlier today, for instance: how could he broach it, when he wasn't really sure what had happened—or, for that matter, that anything had happened at all? Even so, at the rate Caitlyn and my lives have been going recently, maybe we'll be glad of this attitude next week.

The one person he wasn't really glad to see was Harold Cheng. Something about this man just rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he seemed to be visible out of the corner of one's eye for one moment, and the next have gone away again. Was he lurking, stooping—trying to find some moment in which to swoop in?

And sure enough: a moment came in which Caitlyn was deep in conversation with Missy, and Jon looked away for a second to see who else was there. And he caught eyes squarely with Harold, who looked astonished to be noticed.

Jon made a split-second decision to give it a shot. "Hi, Harold. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," said Harold. "I've just been, you know. Working."

"Oh? I thought you were in school."

"No, I'm like you," said Harold. "Older. I work at a software company in Belham Falls."

"They have software companies here?" said Jon. "This isn't the Silicon Valley."

"Not many, but they're here," Harold said. "I mean, have you seen the housing prices? Not everyone can afford to be based there."

"Fair enough," said Jon, who was well aware of how far his luxuriant receptionist's salary would actually take them in a monetary crisis.

"I had to do this piece of coding today," Harold said. "I'm not sure who was in charge of it earlier, but the logic was... I mean, he had contradictions everywhere. I think he rewrote half of his functions differently in different places. This one time I..."

And Jon listened in mounting horror, realizing that when he had asked him, 'How are you,' Harold had taken it seriously.

Do people do that? Does everyone do that? No, of course not. The others—most people—had said a few words about their own lives, and Jon (taking the hint) had said a few words about his; and then they had picked up something interesting from whatever had just been said, and run with that. Asking 'How are you?' was a way of allowing each person to establish a potential topic of conversation. You weren't supposed to take it seriously.

But isn't that misleading? Why should we ask how the other person is doing if we don't actually care—or, rather, if that isn't the answer we want them to give?

But no one else does it. They all know it's misleading. They know that 'How are you?' is a code, a way of saying something that isn't the words themselves. They understand the, what, the social context? The clues? They aren't fumbling over it. They aren't making social faux pas. They aren't... Awkward.

Pastor Larson was standing in the middle of the room, attempting to gather everyone to order. "If we could all sit down... Excuse me, everyone, if we could please all..."

"Thanks, Jon," said Harold, with a smile, "you're a really good listener," and sat down on the other side of Caitlyn.

Jon, numb, sat down too. Caitlyn took one look at him, leaned in and said, "What?" Jon shook his head. The thought that Harold was now going to treat him as a friend had rendered him temporarily mute.

"Hello, everyone," said Pastor Larson. "Thank you all for coming. This is the second meeting of our college group, hopefully the second of many. I see we have some new faces today; why don't we start by going around the circle and introducing ourselves."

The new people were, by and large, folks who either hadn't heard about the college group or hadn't been able to make it last week. There were quite a few of them, but the group did not seem to have increased appreciably in size. Jon wondered who had decided not to come again. He wondered if, had he not been married to Caitlyn, he would've been one of those drop-outs.

"The Scripture we've chosen to discuss today is one of the most famous in all the Bible: Matthew, chapter 25, verses 31-45." The coordinates meant nothing to Jon, but there was enough response from many of the group members—Caitlyn included—that he realized it must be something famous. And once the Bibles were passed out and cracked open, he saw why. "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these..."

"A profound statement," said Pastor Larson, "with profound consequences. Every follower of Jesus, from the Apostles on down, has known that Jesus was calling us to do something very different with our lives, to live in a very different way than we had lived before. 'Love your neighbor,' yes, but... What else? What do you think Jesus means by this passage? Who do you think he was referring to; who do you think he was describing as 'the least'?"

They split into groups, as they had the week before. Jon was pleased that Harold was on the seam: he was divided into one group, Caitlyn into the next. Of the other two in their four-person group, one was Max Lapinski; the other, Lauren Schachter, was one of the new people. She was heavy, but not unpleasantly so, with a big smile.

"So," she said. "Scripture."

"Yep, the Bible," said Max Lapinski. "The good ol' Holy Book. The Word of God."

"Good advice to all the world, at the very least," said Jon.

"Amen," said Max.

"But strange advice, too, at times," said Caitlyn. "Imagine what the disciples must've thought when they heard this. 'We're supposed to do what-now??' "

"Christ had a habit of that," Max said. "Remember the parable of the prodigal son? Kid comes back, having wasted half of his father's fortune, and we're just supposed to welcome him back in? It took me a long time to understand that story."

"God works in mysterious ways, they say," Lauren said. "To which my answer is, 'Duh!—don't you read the Bible?' "

"So anyway, the least," said Caitlyn. "They whom we are supposed to serve. Who are they?"

"Well, what does the Bible say?" Lauren said. "I was hungry and you fed me; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was naked and you clothed me; I was homeless and you took me in."

"I was a stranger and you took me in," Caitlyn corrected, her finger already tracing the passage.

"I was sick and you tended me?" Max said.

"Yeah," said Caitlyn. "And, I was in prison and you visited me."

"Well, there's some of 'em right there," said Lauren with a wide grin. "The least, to whom we are supposed to minister."

"So, hungry people—ain't got any shortage of those," Max said.

"Give me your tired and your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free," Jon recited out of some dim memory.

"Obviously, if you want people who are in prison, you could go to a prison," Max said. "If you want someone sick, you could go to a hospital."

"Obviously," said Lauren. "And the homeless... Well, check your local street corner. If they're out of stock, check the next one."

"Ha! There we go! We've got it sorted!" said Max.

Jon glanced at Caitlyn, and she met his eyes. Jon was pleased that she agreed with his assessment: that there was more to it than this. Max was a sophomore in college, Lauren a freshman; They're young, Caitlyn's gaze seemed to say. Give them time.

"...No, that can't be it," said Max. "There's more to it than that. There's always more to it than that."

"Yeah, it's never that simple," Lauren agreed. "It's not just always the most obvious places."

"A friend of mine..." Caitlyn began. "My friend Brandon once said that people who wear masks are also the ones most likely to be deceived by them. Those of us who... Who are hiding the truth about ourselves—or have things we don't want seen—those are the very people who are least likely to notice when someone else is acting the same way."

"That's... That's really interesting," said Lauren, sounding intrigued.

"Yeah, but, what does it have to do with this?" Max said.

"It relates because all of these... these afflictions, for lack of a better word... All of these afflictions might be right in front of us," Caitlyn said. "We don't see them, because they don't look all, you know, all stereotypical—because the person is hiding them. But they're there."

Jon saw where this was going. "When we hear about what Christ is saying—people who are hungry, or unclothed, or imprisoned—we all think, 'Oh, that could never happen to me. Those are things that happen to other people. Those are things that happen to other countries.' And... I think we can rule that out. I think the point is that that's not true. These things are as real to us today as they were in Christ's time."

"It's only that they've gone underground," Caitlyn said. "But that makes it all the more important to fight them, because most people won't even notice they're there."

Lauren and Max exchanged looks, and then turned almost as one to regard the two of them.

"...What?" Caitlyn said.

Lauren shrugged. "Well... Every now and then, you guys prove you're married." She was smiling.

Jon felt a flush on his cheeks. He didn't need to look at Caitlyn to know hers were probably the same.

When the groups reconvened, the discussion went essentially the same direction it had in their circle, which Jon commented on during the drive home. "I guess we figured out where it was going."

"Yeah, that 'the least' are all around us," Caitlyn said. "That if we keep our eyes open, we'll see them. It's not a bad idea, really. It's a reminder that the people we're called to minister to aren't just, you know, 'out there.' They're here too."

"If we can find them," Jon said.

"Aren't they right under our noses?" Caitlyn said. "Isn't that what we figured out?—that they're everywhere, just hiding? All of us—I mean, heck, Jon, you took me in."

Jon was silent.

"I was a stranger, and you invited me in." Her hand covered his on the center console. "At Meredith's wedding, Jon. I was... I was alone, and frightened, and feeling so... Unloved. Like nobody in the world would ever want to... Like nobody in the world did love me. I was unknown to everyone and outside everything. I was a stranger. And you... Saw, and even though I was the least, you invited me in."

His hand turned palm-up. Their fingers intertwined.

"That's what it's about. That's what we're called to do. Surely you of all people can understand that."

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

"I think what it really is," she said, "is that—is that we're supposed to look at everyone around us, and ask... You know, 'How are they hungry? How are they thirsty? How are they naked or homeless or imprisoned? And how can we help them?' You know?"

Jon knew. It was why he had majored in Psychology; why Christianity called to him; why, when he had sat down with a shivering girl named Caitlyn Delaney at a wedding and heard her story, he had begun to love her in those very moments. There is a world of suffering out there—so many hurts and pains and fears to be addressed. Everyone has their burdens. Too much for any one person to heal. But whatever comes my way, whoever happens to stray before me... That's who I'm called to treat with. I can help—and, even more than that, I must.

He squeezed her hand. "We can do it," he said. "Together, we can do it."

They smiled at each other in the shifting light.

"And... There is someone right under our nose," she said. "Someone who needs help.

"Okay," he said, smiling. "Who?"

"Harold."

"What?!"

"You heard me," said Caitlyn. "Jon, look at him. He's friendless and alone. Did you see the way he latched onto you?" In the darkness of the car her eyes still seemed to catch the light. "He has no one to listen to him, no one to befriend him. He's like I was. Doesn't that... Doesn't that make you feel anything?"

He's not nearly as attractive as you are. "He's not nearly as well-mannered as you are. Caitlyn, I... Jesus."

"You're not supposed to just say that, Jon."

"Look, Caitlyn, you know why he doesn't have friends? You know why everybody ignores him? It's because he's desperate. He's desperate and he's lonely. And people can smell that. They don't wanna touch him with a ten-foot pole! Because if they do, they know he's gonna glom onto them. He will latch on and he won't let go. Is that what you want, Caitlyn? Do you want to be his only friend?—the person who's in charge of all his happiness?"

"First off, Jon, who says I'm in charge of all his happiness? If a time comes when he wants too much from us, then I'll tell him we're busy and that we don't—"

"Ha. You? Caitlyn, when have you ever been able to turn people down? You drove four hundred miles to play for free at the wedding of someone you don't even like just because someone asked you."

"That's besides the point. And second, no, I don't wanna be his only friend: I want to do what Christ calls us to, which is help him reach the point where we're not his only friends, because he can go out and make more."

"Christ calls us to put ourselves in a lousy position?"

"Christ calls us to do good works!"

"Christ calls us to do stupid works, more like." He knew the instant he said it that he should've kept his mouth shut, but by then it was too late. Besides, he couldn't help what he thought was true. "Caitlyn, trying to help Harold Cheng is a mistake. He'll hurt our feelings, he'll use us, he'll be a constant annoyance, and once he feels better he'll go off and leave us with nothing."

"Turn the other cheek."

"...Can be suicidal."

"Jon, it's not going to lose us that much."

"It's not the loss, it's the principle of the thing. What good does it do to cripple ourselves, to drag ourselves down with this?"

"We're fulfilling the word of God! We're showing our faith!"

Jon had no answer to that. Or at least, none he could say out loud.

Caitlyn heard it anyway. "And you don't think that's worth doing. Do you."

"Caitlyn," he started.

"You don't think it's important to act as a Christian in this case."

He wanted to answer, but their turn came up, and for a few moments he was busy parking the car and dogging it down; and by the time he was done, she was already gone up the stairs. He did think it was important to act as a Christian—yes, maybe even in this case. But he didn't think turning the other cheek meant deliberately shooting yourself in the foot... Did it?

When he got into the apartment she was digging blankets out of the closet.

"I'll sleep on the couch," she said. "It's my fault. I'm the one having the disagreement. You shouldn't have to get exiled for that."

"Wait, the... You... What?"

"We had a fight, didn't we?" She didn't turn to face him. "Our very first fight."

It was. Even though they'd dated for eighteen months, they'd never raised their voices like this. Jon felt a draining sensation in his guts. "This wasn't a..."

"We found something we couldn't agree on," said Caitlyn in a businesslike voice. "Something we just have to agree to disagree about. Doesn't that sound like a fight to you?"

Jon felt the world in a dizzying swing under him. He latched on to the first coherent thought to bob his way. "I didn't ask you to sleep on the couch."

She gave him a bleak look. "I did."

Jon stared at her for a few more seconds, and then, ever obedient to her wishes, crossed to the bedroom and closed the door. Finally it occurred to him that she didn't want to be near him tonight.

Automatically he checked his e-mail and put some sleeping clothes on—it was the first time he was wearing them in months, since there was normally a beautiful woman in bed with him, one who loved him just as much as he loved her. It wasn't even his bed; it was Caitlyn's. She had slept in it for years before now. Who was he to be occupying it while she tossed and turned on the canvas couch? He didn't belong here. Not without her.

She hadn't debated or hesitated; she hadn't questioned the prerogative. Instead she had simply exiled herself—had simply taken it upon herself to bear the sufferings of the situation. 'We had a fight; it was my fault; I should be the one to be punished.' It was one of the things that made him love her: that she would not let anyone come to pain if she could be brought there instead.

What am I doing? It should be me out there instead of her. It should be me out there with her.

He lay in the tangled sheets, soaked in the light from the streetlamps, one arm flung above his head. He could not tell when he slept or woke; one dribbled into the other and back again. Perhaps he dreamed that he was awake. He did not look at the clock; he didn't want to know. The drone of the computer was empty in his ears. He missed the breathing, the constant subconscious near-subliminal in-out that meant his light, his life, his everything, was still here for him. He caught himself turning to see the crescent-moon of her face and forced himself to stillness.

He only knew he was asleep because she woke him.

"Jon. Jon." The voice was low. "Jon, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Though it was dead-of-night o'clock, he was awake; this time, his brain was ready. "Sorry for what?"

"Sorry for..." The voice was choked, the crescent-moon streaked with tears. "I don't want to be alone anymore, Jon, I shouldn't've... I thought, if I abandoned you, if I made you feel like I felt..."

"I would never abandon you," he said. He sat up, swinging his feet out, and put his arms around her. She was cold; to his touch she seemed almost icy. How long had she stood here? "I would never... Caitlyn, if you're set on this, if this is what you think is right, I'll support you. I love you. I'm your husband. Some things... There are things that are more important than what I want."

"Oh, Jon," she said, and threw herself into his arms.

"What are you doing out there? You should be in bed. It's late. Come on..."

"I had a... I had a dream. That you were gone, that I came in here and you were gone, there was... All the clothes, all your things... And it wasn't that you'd left, it's that you'd never been to begin with... And I had to, to come in and see, and, and, and I—"

"Shh, it's okay. I'm here." It was awkward getting her into the bed, but they managed. "I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving you. Never. I love you."

"Jon," she whispered.

"Shhh, it's okay. It's okay. You're home."

In only a few moments, she was asleep again, the silver of her tears still drying on her face. And, in only a few moments more, so was he.

He was home too.

Day 40

On Friday, Jon got home early. Caitlyn was rattling around in the kitchen, washing some dishes, when he came in unexpectedly. "They let me go a little early," he explained. And, almost immediately, the shenanigans started up in earnest.

Caitlyn had had a pretty quiet day. She had gone back down to Shellview State to see if anyone had a part-time job she could get into, and left her resume at a few places; one supervisor had even interviewed her, but he was looking for behind-the-counter workers at the school's cafeteria, and Caitlyn didn't see that working out for her. The job at the library, the T.A. position under Professor Cowell in the Music Department: those were what she was hoping on. She wondered why she had bothered spending so many days trolling the Internet when going in-person had been so much more efficient: she'd gone in for barely an hour and been infinitely more successful, in that people had actually acknowledged her and some had shown definite interest in taking her on—as opposed to the Internet applications she'd tried, in which her appeals had disappeared into the Great Cyber Beyond with hardly an acknowledgement of their existence, and no one had ever answered her back. She realized now that people must be a lot more interested in you if you showed up in person. Then why do they bother with the Internet?

She had also spent a little time on the phone with Harold Cheng. The conversation had been a little strained, mostly because Jon was right: the man had no social graces to speak of whatsoever. Was 'conversation' the right word when it consisted solely of Harold rambling for thirteen minutes on the intricacies of function order and coding elegance? He probably would've gone on longer if his lunch break hadn't ended. Nonetheless, she wasn't going to admit defeat. Surrender was not in Caitlyn Stanford.

Relations between her and Jon had been very friendly since their spat. She was going out of her way not to antagonize him, and she had a sense that he was too. There was a lot of laughter between them, and some more conversation than they had shared previously, but never about anything important. Everything was happier, but also hollower. And they had not been conjugal since her birthday dinner, which she was somewhat embarrassed to admit she missed. Jon seemed to have no interest in her, which seemed astounding. She knew that, probably, he was holding himself back, giving her space; he knew she wasn't always, wasn't perfectly, comfortable with what they did together, even though they'd been married for over a month. And yet something kept her from reaching out instead. Part of it was shame—no matter how loose Jon kept her, there was a part of her that believed no proper woman would ever try to initiate sex. And part of it was fear: what if he actually had lost interest? What if it was all a facade? What if he had learned something so catastrophic that he could no longer bear to... Well, clearly, it was easier to just not broach the subject.

So when he came in the threshold and said, "They let me go a little early," she smiled at him and said, "Well, more time for us to be together," in the hopes that he would take the hint. She didn't want to be estranged from him like this.

"It's Friday," he said. "What do you want to do?"

"I was thinking... I was thinking we might just have a quiet night together," she said. She looked up at him, stroked the line of his jaw with a finger. "Just the two of us."

"Oh really," he said, smiling.

"It's been... It's been a stressful week," she said.

"That it has."

"And it's been a long time since we've been... Together." She felt her cheeks heating, but didn't back down.

"That it has," he said.

"If... If you wanna, you know, go do something else... I mean, the Cranes are back in town, we could always look them up. Or we could invite some of your friends from Octapella over."

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to spend time with my husband," she said.

So that was what they did.

They cooked dinner together—the first time they'd done so all week. They talked, they laughed; but it was less fake, less empty. Jon told her about the stupid things the patients at the dental clinic had done; she told him about the stupid things she'd seen while walking around campus. She felt in some strange way like she hadn't seen him in ages, even though she'd gone to sleep next to him not eighteen hours ago.

She needed to broach it somehow, so she said it as they worked: "Oh, and, I got Harold Cheng's number from Pastor Larson."

"Oh?" said Jon. He didn't look at her. "Did you call him?"

"...Yeah," she said.

"What did he say?"

"Well... He gave me a lecture on how to program a database management system," she said.

She saw a quirk of a smile, quickly hidden. "Did you ask him for a lecture?"

"No," she said. "...Well, yes. In that, you know, I talked to him at all."

She knew that, if he wanted to say, I told you so, now would be the time; and she resolved that, if he did, she would bear it in silence. But instead he shook his head and grinned. "Well, next time, you can bore him with a lecture on harp architecture, and that way you'll get even."

She turned to him. "Does it bother you? Does it bother you that..." She couldn't articulate what it was. Really, she wasn't sure herself.

"Well," he said. "I worry about you. I mean, seriously, hon—you don't know how to say no to people. This... Harold's co-dependent, in a way, in that, once he's got a friend, he won't let go. I worry that you'll get so locked up in it that you won't have time for yourself."

Or for my husband, she finished in her head. "Maybe so, but remember, Jon, that's what I have you for."

He gave her a cautious look.

"You're... Well, maybe 'selfish' isn't the right word. But you have such a sense of... Boundary. You know what lines people are allowed to cross, and what lines they aren't. And you don't let anybody trample on you. And I know that... If I let you... You'll do the same for me."

"Yeah, but, will you let me?" he said. He reached out to touch her shoulder.

In answer, she moved into his arms, drew him down to her, and kissed him.

His arm circled her waist; the other her shoulders. She felt the way his body arched over hers, melding to her; she felt the buttons on his shirt pressing against her skin, the warmth of his body against her breasts. His tongue caressed hers; she drew a hand through his hair. She could already feel a touch of wetness between her legs, a touch of stiffness against her belly.

"Oh God," he breathed. "It's been too long."

"Well, maybe if you..." The rest of the protest was lost as his mouth found her ear. His tongue traced the skin of her head, the folds and crevices there; then his teeth, nipping gently. While dating him, she had never understood why her ear was such an erogenous zone for her: it didn't seem to elicit any such response from him; instead, he liked it when she sucked on his fingers, though. Then they were married, and she found out that, without realizing it, she had loved his ministrations on her ears in anticipation of what he would do with his tongue down below.

He bent his head further, kissing her neck; he turned her body, shifting her hair aside. She felt the sudden coolness of air on the back of her neck, already tingling with goosebumps; then the touch of his lips sent shivers through her. She reached for his hand and pulled it around to cup her breast.

"Maybe if I what?" he said.

"You were the one holding off," she said.

"What, you think I wanted to? I didn't want to hurt you."

"Maybe if we had talked about it."

"Okay. Wanna?"

"Unhhhh."

"There, we've talked about it."

She laughed, low and husky, as he drew her back against him. His lips moved to her other ear, licking and nibbling, as one hand covered her breast and the other slid down to rest on the crotch of her pants. Her nipples had already stiffened against her bra, though she doubted he could feel it; the hardness in his pants was pressing into her back and she knew that his hand down below must be feeling the fire there as well. He bent his head around her shoulder to nip at her throat, and she threw her head back, letting him hunch over her, letting him feed the fire.

When his hand left her breast she gave a moan of dismay, but then she felt him fumbling with the button on her pants. In a moment they were pooled on the floor. Then she felt knuckles against the bare skin of her butt, and had a moment's confusion before suddenly his erection was free, a bar of fire between her legs. When his hands grasped her hips, she let him tilt them backwards, and suddenly he was home.

It was a different sensation than before. He had entered her from behind before—doggie-style a few times, or a slow, langorous bout in the mornings as they spooned together in bed. This was entirely different. His lips on her ear, his hands on her breasts, as she stood with her ass in the air, feeling him penetrate her from behind, feeling their bodies undulate back and forth as he did her. She had no idea how she'd gotten this wet. She had no idea how she'd gotten this horny. He was moaning in her ear, and she was moaning too, and if they'd forgotten to close the blinds again than that stupid neighbor of theirs was going to get an eyeful of Jon's butt but she didn't care, she was lost to the moment and she wanted nothing more than his cock inside her.

He thrust with sharp, deliberate movements; he couldn't get as far in as he could in other positions, probably because of the awkward angle. Her whole back was covered by his chest, by that warm plane of muscle wrapped around her. His arms were crossed over her chest, hands on opposite breasts, kneading their flesh. She felt his thighs knocking against the back of her legs as he straddled her, shoving up from the hip, impaling her on his cock—his warm, fat cock, so magnificent inside her, filling her up, filling her body with pleasure, making her whole.

Suddenly she felt him tense, heard him groan; he thrust in as deep as he could go, and she felt him pulsing, throbbing; and then the warmth of his seed deep within her. She sighed with pleasure and pressed back against him, wanting him deeper, wanting to draw him as deep as she could go, feeling his love for her in his breathless moans, his arms strong around her, his heart thudding against her skin, his hot cum pulsing out of him, splashing against her walls. That was his love for her, that warm and gooey treasure deep within her, and her love for him was to be here, to take it, to feel it cling to the walls of her pussy, to caress him with her length to serve his pleasure, and to lean back and kiss him as his heart thudded down from its final crescendo.

"Oh, God, Caitlyn... Caitlyn, my love, my beautiful beautiful woman... I don't know how I... How can I ever show you how much I love you..."

"Didn't you?" she said, smiling, and wiggled her hips against him. This did very interesting things to them both, since he was still inside her.

He kissed her again, and as they stood entwined, his penis softened and eventually dropped out of her. She was sad to feel it go. That's how I know we were meant to be, that he was meant to be mine. When we're just talking about things, or working up to it, I always feel so awkward, so doubtful... But once he's inside me, once we're actually making love, he fits me perfectly. He belongs. I am his, I belong to him, my body was made to be a home for him. And his was made to live in mine.

He stood back, and she bent down to pick up her pants and put them back on. She knew her panties would be soaked soon, by his cum and by her own juices, but she didn't want that dripping down her leg. But when she turned, Jon had simply stepped out of his pants and was now bare from the waist down. His penis waggled stiffly from side to side, still proud if not at full mast, and his pubic hair made a dark thatch above it.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

He shrugged, gave her pants a look, and raised his eyebrows at her.

She rolled her eyes.

Of course, in that state of dress, she knew where things would head once they got the chicken in the oven and themselves in the bedroom; and Jon did not disappoint. Having said that, he made a play of it, kissing her everywhere, slowly liberating her from her clothes, undoing one layer at a time with the utmost care and love. Soon they sat naked together, facing each other unashamed over the bedcovers.

"Does it really bother you that I want to help Harold," she asked him.

He made a face. "It... I dunno, Caitlyn. He just... He rubs me the wrong way. Kind of..." He sighed. "Kind of reminds me of myself, in some ways."

She looked at him. "What?"

"Well... You didn't know me back then. But I was a lot like that when I was younger. So... So underconfident. Clinging to whatever I had to make me sound interesting. You might not believe it, but, I was one of the weirdos once."

She didn't believe it—not because she thought he was lying, but because she simply couldn't see it happening. Jon was so confident and genuine today. But if he said it had happened... "And you don't really like seeing that reminder?"

"No," he said. "I didn't much like myself back then."

She touched his hand to show her sympathy. He took it, resting them on his knee.

"And..." He sighed, rubbing his face with a hand. "And, it makes me wonder... God, I dunno. It makes me... Wonder if... Maybe... I mean, you like me, right? And... He's... Like me."

She saw where this was going, and spoke sharply to head it off.

"Jon, Harold is no more like you than... Than Rex is like you. You're right, maybe you were like him once... But you're not like him anymore. You're so different from him now. You've gotten over your lack of confidence, and now you... Well, you do what makes sense to you, you say what's in your heart, and you don't care if others disagree. Harold wants to be liked, he's almost like a dog that way; you don't need to want that, because you know who you are. There's a huge difference.

"And, Jon: I married you. I am your wife. You are my husband. That's more important than... Than a lot of things. Than almost everything. It doesn't matter if Prince Perfect comes along tomorrow—I'm already married, to you. I've made my decision." She stroked his face. "And I don't regret it one bit.

"And besides, even if Prince Perfect were to come along, I can guarantee you he's not Harold Cheng." She smiled.

His face was pale, drawn. She suddenly realized just how difficult it must have been for him to make that admission. Love for him swelled in her heart, and she drew him to her, putting her arms around him, holding him close.

"I love you," she whispered. "We're married. That's that. Nobody could ever... Ever take your place in my heart. I wouldn't let them."

He drew her close, his arms around her, and shook. When she felt wetness on her head, she suddenly realized he was crying. Curious—she had cried in his arms so many times, but this was the first time the reverse was true.

Funny; I thought I knew all there was to know of him.

It didn't take long. After a little while he shook his head and sniffed and got his composure back. "I love you," he whispered. "I'm so glad you're in my life." And when he pulled away, she looked up and saw the silver tracks on his face, and kissed them, and then kissed him.

As they sidled together, still connected at the lip, she let her hand drift down his body, over his warm chest and down into the thatch between his legs. His cock was still damp from her own oven when she took it in her hand, which reminded her that if she wanted to play with it, she should probably clean it off first. She gave him a final peck and got up for a washcloth. "I'll be right back."

Once her plaything was washed and dried, she regarded it with clear eyes. She was still vaccilating over it. She knew that he liked it when she played with it—well, that was only fair; she liked it when he played with her privates, assuming she could get over the pre-nervousness—and to be perfectly honest she didn't mind doing it either. His penis as an object wasn't all that thrilling to her (unless it was deep inside her, pushing up towards her womb where, God willing, he would one day start a life inside her), but she knew what it did to him, knew how much he loved it when she played with it—loved doing those things to him.

The problem was his semen.

As far as she was concerned, there was only one appropriate place for cum in the human body: inside her, as deep as it would go, warm and slippery and tingling in the corners and crevices of her pussy. She didn't like it in her mouth—the taste just wasn't any good, nor the texture—but the idea of backing off and letting him just spurt everywhere wasn't any good either. Once, in the early days of their marriage when they had still lived at his parents' house, she had asked him to spurt off as an experiment—well, she had helped him get there too—and watched as it flew everywhere. They had done this in the shower, which had helped with the clean-up; but right now they were lying on their bed, and she didn't want his semen getting all over the place—the bed, his legs, maybe even her. But conversely she didn't want to have to get him in the shower every time she wanted to kiss him on the penis.

The solution, to her, was for her to straddle him and take him inside her when he reached his coming point, and let him spurt off in the place he belonged, in the place she loved to have his cum. But Jon didn't like that. The one time she'd done it, he'd protested that it wasn't fair for him to take his orgasm inside her without her being compensated in return, and then insisted on going down on her—going down on her!, while his cum was still inside her! She was so grossed out by the idea that she was completely unable to relax, and (as she'd learned by now) orgasm was downright impossible when tensed up. She'd never tried it again.

Some of this must have been on her face; or perhaps Jon simply knew her well enough to predict her thoughts. "Baby, you don't have to. Not just to please—"

"Hush," she said, smiling. "I want to. I like to. I just... Don't know what to do when you come."

"Just... Well, I have an idea, but it, umm. It came from the Internet."

From one of those euphemistically-named 'adult videos.' "Okay."

"You could just... Keep your mouth there, and, and let it shoot, but... Let it drip out again. That would control the, um, the splashing, but it still wouldn't get too much of anywhere."

She shrugged. "It's worth a try. Why don't you lie down?"

He scooted back on the bed until he was sitting up against the wall. It wasn't what she had intended, but as she moved in closer she decided this was fine too—maybe even better. She could lay her head on his lap and get to work; she could look up and see his face. His hands caressed her back, stroked her hair. Yes, this would be just fine.

His penis was small and soft, but even as she took it in her mouth she felt it begin to warm and enlarge. He was circumcized, so there was a ring of flinty skin partway down the shaft, but otherwise the skin was deliciously soft and smooth, in a way she had never imagined before becoming married. She could still smell the scent of their previous coupling; but then she would've needed shampoo to fix that. She could stand it.

She was pretty familiar with its geography by now, and she began to lick her way up and down the shaft. She took advantage of its current flaccidity to suck it all into her mouth; once he was up to full staff, there was no way to fit it all. As it continued to grow and firm, she let loose, and then returned to the head, noting in passing that her nose was now itchy and tickly from its brief contact with pubic hair. She stopped to scratch it and continued on.

What Jon had told her was that an in-out, or perhaps up-down, motion was necessary to bring him to orgasm—sensible, since that was the motion his penis went through when buried deep inside her, touching folds of her body she never knew were there—and that her mouth was the most logical tool to use. But she wanted to see how much she could accomplish with her tongue. Conscious of his hands in her hair, on her back, she began to rub her tongue against the underside of his penis, first gently, and then with increasing intensity.

She wondered suddenly what they must look like now: Jon upright in the bed, hunched over her, his eyes lidded, his hands caressing her skin; she curled up on the bed, her head in his lap, her own privates peeking out between her legs as she lay on her side. Jon was groaning now, possibly taken aback by the sudden intensity of sensation, and she propped an elbow up on the other side of his legs so that she could approach from the top. Giving up on the tongue, she began to work her mouth up and down, gently at first but with increasing speed. His cock seemed larger in her mouth than ever, and his breathing was ragged—a sure sign of his impending orgasm. "Caitlyn," he was gasping. "Caitlyn, Caitlyn... I'm gonna—"

A sudden intensity of thought grasped her: that she didn't want to miss this orgasm. She knew what it felt like when he was down below—the pulsing, the splashing, the urgency in his muscles as he pushed his way deeper into her body—but now she wanted real details. She secured her lips to his shaft, pressed her tongue up against the bottom of his penis, and hung on for dear life.

She sensed rather than felt his balls contracting, pushing his semen up; but she felt it as it burst up into the shaft, felt him swelling in dimension. And suddenly with a tremor he was there, bursting up into her mouth—she had the sense to breathe through her nose this time, and it pooled on her tongue. As she watched from her limited angle, his mouth gaped and his eyelids fluttered; his hips jerked below her as he spurt twice, three times, four times more into her mouth, until they fell back on the bed and the last bits trickled out. Then his head fell back and he was still, except for the gasps of his breath and his hand, warm, now cupping her cheek.

"Oh my God," he gasped. "Caitlyn." Does he have to keep saying that?

She signaled with a hand that she needed to run to the bathroom, where she spit out his cum in the toilet. No matter how cool it was to have him come for her that way—and she had to admit, it had really been cool to have such a front-row seat to his orgasm—she still didn't like the stuff that came with it. She swished with Jon's mouthwash too before returning.

"Caitlyn, you are the craziest girl I've ever been married to," Jon said.

She laughed and climbed onto the bed. "Oh, you've been married before me?"

"You said you weren't gonna... I figured you weren't... I totally wasn't expecting that!"

"What? That I would hang on?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, you do realize it's more intense when you keep doing stuff to me as I come, right?"

She hadn't thought about that one way or the other. Under normal circumstances, Jon had been cumming at least once a day since their wedding night; she hadn't, though he was still doing a perfectly wonderful job as far as she was concerned. Regardless, though, she just wasn't very familiar with them. "Well, then, I'm glad I helped you enjoy yourself."

He shook his head. "Caitlyn. Caitlyn, my beautiful woman, my..." Words seemed to fail him, and he took her back in his arms.

She smiled up at him. "Yes, Jon. Your woman. I'm yours."

He kissed her, drawing her up to meet him, and then began to nibble at her neck again. She sighed her pleasure, sensing that it was his turn, that now she was in his hands. Even though some of the things he did felt dirty to her, she had never felt threatened in his arms. Whatever he did, wherever he was, was safe, and she could relax under his lips, his hands, knowing that no matter what, he would never hurt her.

Though he might push at her a time or two.

He kept kissing her as he drew her down to the bed, his arm under her as he laid her down flat. He leaned over her, kissing her, as his other hand began to explore: tracing her face, the edge of her nose, the line of her throat; her collar bones under her skin; the inside of her arm, her palm and the tips of her fingers. As his hand began its return journey, he began to kiss at her neck again, and then her ear, that ever-sensitive spot. He said that he loved her ears, that they were perfect to him. He was crazy, of course; who cared about ears. But it was nice to hear.

She let herself lean back and surrender under his ministrations as he began to kiss his way down her body, his lips following much the same trail as his fingers, but he let himself derail as he passed her breasts. He kissed his way around the right one, over and under, side to side, covering every inch of the skin of her breast. She had never been secure in the size of her breasts. Clothed, they seemed far less impressive than the ones she saw on TV, in movies, on magazine covers at the grocery store; unclothed, without the benefit of the padding she'd installed in her bras, things were even worse. Jon had never evinced any concern about the size—or lack thereof—of her breasts; indeed, he claimed they too were perfect for him, just like her ears. Obviously, he was crazy. But it was still nice to hear.

He was covering her breast in kisses, now looping inward in concentric circles... But still he had not touched her nipple, proud and erect and longing for his touch. When he finally did she felt her passion mount, a fresh sensation of wetness between her thighs, a new wave of pleasure sweeping over her as her arousal climbed another notch. And as he sucked her nipple, swept over it with his tongue, pulled at it with his lips, his hand began once again to wander south.

She felt it tracing over her stomach and navel, stopping for a moment to play in her belly button (it tickled a little, but Jon seemed to find it cute—he was crazy, wasn't he?) and then, to her surprise, detour down her leg. She felt his finger trail down the side of her thigh, and then, tingling, to the back of her knee; she'd never known that spot had so much sensitivity. Then, as he switched to her other breast and began to kiss all over it, his hand began creeping up the inside of her thigh.

As before, he seemed to avoid that special, private place—sliding up and down her thigh, switching from one to the other—as his kisses orbited her nipple. Finally he did both at once, attaching to her nipple as his hand settled over her pubis, his longest finger down the length of her opening. A distant voice marveled how he must have done this on purpose; most of her, though, was consumed with the sudden sensations as he latched on to the two most delicate places in her body. She felt as though her whole body was throbbing in time with her heart... And in time with the deep, persistent ache in her groin, where thanks to the magic of Jon's hands and lips a gap now begged to be filled.

She thought he would follow with his lips where his hands had gone—but to her surprise he instead began to kiss his way back up her body, until suddenly their lips met. She threw her arms around him and drew him close, moaning into his mouth as he began to rub back and forth with the hand on her pubic mound; she could feel that hand becoming slippery as more of her fluids leaked out of her. She let her tongue duel with his, stroked his back with her nails, drew him closer—as close as she could, with that arm between them, slanting down into the gap between her legs.

She felt him inserting a finger into her. Normally she protested this because she didn't like having anything but his organ in there—in fact, he hadn't tried it since their wedding night—but today the need for orgasm was too strong, and she felt herself clamp down on him involuntarily. It wasn't as large as his member, of course, but it was better than nothing. Even as his finger remained inside her, he continued to rub at her mons, sending shocks of pleasure through her, building up the fire inside her. Her nipples burned against his chest; she felt her breath hitching, her heart racing, as he insinuated another finger within. Her body was spasming, clenching down in his fingers irreguarly and involuntarily; each spasm sent greater tremors of sensation through her, a reverberation that would soon spill over.

She could feel the volcanic tide rising within her; she had given over kissing him long ago, her head thrown back, and he was kissing at her neck, her ear, her chin. Suddenly she felt the fingers inside her crick forward, touching off some inner spot inside her—and then she was gone. Her moans shrieked to a crescendo and her body shook as her pussy tightened on his invading fingers, clutching at them with spasmodic strength, as the heel of his hand kept pressing against that perfect button, as her body seized up with the gushing torrent of her release.

She fell back on the bed, spent.

Down below she felt him slowly withdraw his hand, leaving a slick, somewhat clammy emptiness inside her. Gently he gathered her to him, her arm limp around him, her breathing heavy against his chest, until she could hear the beating of his heart. She felt his lips kissing the top of her head, the little whorl where no hair lay. She felt rather than heard his whisper: "I love you."

There was a beeping sound coming from somewhere near. Realization shot through her: "Jon, the chicken!"

The chicken was not nearly as dead as it could have been—very crispy, to be certain, but not burned and not too dry to eat. Laughing about the mishap, they supped naked, sitting across from each other, trading bites with their forks. She wished they had lit the candles, but she hadn't thought to set them out and she didn't want to ruin the moment by stopping to get them. They had had such perfect sex today. They had made such perfect love today. Anything might break the spell; she had no intention of being the one to do it.

She looked down at her chair, suddenly realizing that the juices of at least two orgasms—her recent one, and then Jon's deposit from their upright bout at the kitchen counter—were probably leaking out onto it. "Umm... Maybe we should wash these cushions."

Jon laughed. "It might be wise. Zach says that when he and Christa go around without clothes, they use towels on the seating surfaces."

"Zach has talked about that?"

"Of course," said Jon. "So has Christa. I mean, they aren't like flinging it all over people's faces or anything, but if we're curious they're willing to share."

Caitlyn handled this new thought gingerly. That level of self-revelation seemed... Extreme to her. And yet, if someone wanted to ask her for advice, shouldn't she be willing to help them?—even if it required reaching into the depths of her own private life to do so? Sure, there were things she'd rather keep secret, but God's word on the subject was clear: she was here to serve, and the circumstances of that service would not always be under her control. Jon, she knew, felt much the same way, reticence over Harold Cheng notwithstanding. It was one of the reasons she loved him.

"I'm glad we had this time," she said. "I'm glad we had this chance to... To just be, and to love each other." She smiled. "I'm glad I hung on even when you squirted."

His eyebrows jumped. "Yeah, I still can't believe you did that."

"Well..." She shrugged. "I wanted to be there when you came. I wanted to... Get to know you." Now she knew things about him—about his face as he came, about the way his body behaved as it began to fire, about that one spot on his underside ridge that seemed to be the most sensitive place on his body. No one else knew these things about him—as was right, of course, since she was his wife.

He smiled. "That you did. And I guess I returned the favor."

"I don't think you've ever made me come before without using your... Your mouth."

"I don't either. Sometimes it happens when we're doing it, but mostly it's when I go down on you."

"How come you never did it before? I kind of liked it this way. I liked being able to hold on to you, and kiss you, while you... Played with me."

He shrugged. "Well... Probably, if I'd tried before now, it wouldn't've worked. I mean, I have to get to know you too, you know."

She gave him a mischievous look. "What was it like?"

He seemed a little taken aback by this question, but he didn't let it stop him. "Well... You were squeezing down on my fingers, and your whole body got... Well, it was like all your muscles flexed, a little bit. And then afterwards you went limp." He smiled. "And I got to see your face." The smile faded a little bit, becoming warmer, as if he were looking out into some remembered past. "You're so beautiful when you come."

She drew his hand to her lips and kissed it.

As they cleaned up the dishes and put the semi-dry chicken back in the refrigerator, he said, "Honey... Can I make a request?"

She smiled at him. "Anything. I'm your wife, Jon. My body belongs to my man, to do with as he sees fit."

He seemed taken aback by this too, but again he plowed on. "Would you... Would you shave yourself for me?"

She blinked. "What, like... My hair?" Unconsciously she combed a tendril back behind her ear.

"No, your..." He gestured with his eyes. "Down there."

Caitlyn blinked again.

She looked down at herself. Though her pubic hair was slightly matted and slicked down from their recent exertions, there was still rather a lot of it. She imagined being Jon, trying to stick his face into that thicket; she remembered sticking her own face into Jon's. Obviously, since his things stuck out, she got a little less of it in the way, but when Jon was going down on her... Well, actually, she didn't blame him for wanting her to cut down on her pubic hair.

But at the same time...

"Shave? Like... Like completely bare?"

"Not if you don't want to," Jon said quickly, which she understood to mean, Yes. "Just a trim, maybe. But... I mean, I've heard that your... Your area gets a lot more sensitive that way. It feels better during sex."

"If I was completely bare... I would look like a child," she said, and gave him a suspicious look.

He ran his hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable. "That's not... No you would not, sweetie. Trust me. I've seen this sort of thing, umm, on the Internet, and, well... I really like it."

"What would I do, just use a razor?"

"And shaving cream, yeah. Like when you shave your legs."

She still wasn't very good at shaving her legs; she had only started doing it after they got married. Jon, bless his heart, had not said anything one way or the other, besides that she need do nothing she didn't want to. Nonetheless, this was different. "That area's a little more... Delicate, Jon."

He mopped his face with a hand. "Look, you don't have to if you don't want to. I'm just saying that... You know. Maybe it's something you could look into. It might make life easier for both of us."

It sounded weird, but then, so did a lot of the things Jon had introduced her to over the last month or so. Even sex sounded weird at first. And didn't I just tell him that he could do as he pleased with my body? "Well... I suppose we could try it. Just a trim, though."

"Great!" he said. "Umm. Shall we?"

"What, you mean now?"

He grinned. "No time like the present, right?"

She let him lead her to the bathroom. "Are you gonna do yours?"

He stopped to blink at her. "Do you want me to?"

Truthfully, she didn't care one way or the other. But fair is fair. Besides, maybe it'll be an inconvenience and he won't ask me to do it. "Sure, why not?"

So, with her pair of scissors, she sat on the toilet and began to snip. Jon watched her with eager eyes, which was part endearing, part creepy and part just-plain-annoying. To head him off, she pointed the scissors at him. "Why, you wanna help?"

"Sure," he said, and Caitlyn was left to wonder if this could possibly backfire any further. She was letting Jon approach her privates with a pair of scissors! But he was gentle and careful with them—somewhat more than she'd been herself—and there were no unexpected pokes or cuts. And, to be fair, it was probably easier for him to see and get an even trim than for her to. He fetched a cup and used some water to rinse out the trimmed bits, which had the added effect of smoothing out her hair and letting him see if it was even; they laughed that he was turning into a full-fledged barber. Now if only he wouldn't cut it so short; instead of a proverbial bush, all she had left now was a trimmed lawn no longer than the last segment of her pinkie finger.

When he was done, he offered her the scissors. "Your turn." He seemed to have no nervousness that she would commit some accidental atrocity on his unspeakable personals. But then, of course, all his were dangling out in the open, not tucked away inside his body where no one could see them.

For a moment she pondered this bizarre convolution of creation and existence. How did that affect personality or social expectation?—that women's privates were internal, and men's on the outside? How would life, the universe and everything be different if that simple biological fact were reversed? What would it be like if women were the ones you kicked in the balls?

"Caitlyn?" said Jon, and she suddenly realized she had been staring at his crotch this entire time. His hand cupped her cheek, a familiar gesture. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing important," said Caitlyn. She turned her head in his hand to kiss his palm. It tasted slightly sour, and she realized this was the hand he had put between her legs. Oh well. No help for that now.

It was probably easier for her to trim his hair because of all the dangly-outy bits, but she felt like shorter scissors might have been more useful. These were the scissors she used to cut cloth for her sewing projects, and they were longer than Jon's penis even if fully erect. Something shorter and subtler might've been easier to work with under these circumstances. Still, it was easy to handle his penis and keep it out of the way as she worked—and, as an added bonus, it began to firm, making it easier to judge how short she'd gotten his hair. She was surprised that it looked so much longer.

When she was done and had put the scissors down, he rose without a word and she did too. She did not expect him to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed. She hadn't until this time even been aware that he could pick her up like that. Suddenly she was aware of his penis warm against her hip, of the resurgence of the sweet ache between her legs—the gap that, even now, longed to be filled.

He deposited her on the bed and, without further preamble, dove between her legs. Immediately she felt that he was right, that she could feel so much more down there with so much less hair in the way; but very quickly she had other things on her mind: his lips on her mound, on the flesh to either side of her opening, on the crevices around it, on the now (dramatically) less protected top of her slit, where that specially-sensitive nub lay open to his ministrations. As he began to suck on her clit, she wove her fingers into his hair and moaned.

When she came it was not as intense as before. She had lost herself in the sensations, letting her head fall back and glory in the feeling of his lips on her clit, his tongue inside her; and then, without warning, she was there, the great tremble and gush as her pleasure rushed out of her in a clenching, spasming wave. Even before the last contraction ended she felt the deep ache of her emptiness, and reached for him to draw him up and penetrate her. He must have known, for he rose up, her legs still over his shoulders, and positioned himself.

He slid home in one swift thrust.

It was a new sensation, completely unlike anything she'd felt before. Her legs were bent at an acute angle, her body curved; she could see her own feet hanging in the air, Jon's face between them. He too must have been bent at the waist, his hips and legs back behind him as he pushed himself forward. He was deep inside her, deeper than she'd ever felt before; it was almost uncomfortable, but at the same time it was thrilling, incredibly erotic, to know that he was stretching her inner depths, forcing her to accomodate his intrusion—that no man had ever been this far inside her; that no other man ever would. His face was a mask, like nothing she had ever seen before, an almost animal look of passion there as he pumped into her, slapping softly against her thighs on each thrust, her body flexing to absorb them. She was in the middle of the bed; there was nothing to hang on to; she was completely at his mercy. Maybe the thought should have scared her; instead it sent another thrill through her. He had her body at his command, and—no matter how bad, there was simply no other appropriate word—he was going to fuck the heck out of her. She had never had sinful sex before, not like this, but she knew instinctively that that was the right word; knew, instinctively, that this was sinful only because of how unbelievably good it was going to be.

Though it was thrilling to be plowed into this way, it was also uncomfortable, and after only a dozen strokes or so he stopped to adjust his hold. He slid his legs up until he sat on his feet before her, and her body slanted up the wedge of his kneeling legs. Her legs were together, not parted the way they normally were for their sex, and she felt the difference in the tightness of her walls as he battered against them. He was holding her by the ankles, levering in and out of her, while her fingers scrabbled against the sheets for what purchase they could find; her toes were near his head, and suddenly she noticed that he was kissing and sucking them. Why he would want to do that was a question for another day; there was nothing more important right now than his cock within her, his body firm against the back of her legs, the blood rushing to her head, the powerful way he moved inside her.

It took him a long time to come, but she paid it no mind. The ride was all, the sensations, which were pleasurable but almost not so; somehow she knew that sensation was not their goal, but instead the animal velocity of their expanding emotions. If she had come it would have been a distraction. Nonetheless she was so far gone that she almost didn't notice when he came; it was only his sudden groan, after so long of complete silence, that alerted her. Again she felt the building pressure through two layers of skin and nerves; again he grew, swelled, burst within her; again the burst of whiteness and heat, deep against her inner walls, deeper than she'd ever had it. Maybe this time it'll stay in. Semen seemed so sticky when it splashed in her mouth; how come it dripped out of her when she stood up?

She had not come, but she didn't care; in some ways it was better. Nonetheless she realized she was exhausted by the sheer amount (and intensity) of sex they had had—from lovemaking to pure fucking and back again. Wordlessly he began to extricate himself, and when he let her legs down she stood up to turn off the lights. She crawled into bed beside him and, with barely a kiss good-night, dropped off to sleep.