A Couple Years of Gardening (Chapter 9) (standard:romance, 4276 words) [9/10] show all parts
Author: kmr412002	Added: Mar 26 2008	Views/Reads: 2231/1739	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The coutship and marriage of a detective as told by his wife.

In the freight elevator, I reach up and pull off his ski cap. I touch
his hair, and his face. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. 
He whispers, “I can feel again.”  I think how both of us have numbed 
ourselves. 

The elevator inexplicably comes to a jolting halt that throws Jack
against me. I look up at him as I hold onto his coat lapels. It begins 
to move again but in an achingly slow climb. Jack touches my chin and 
says, “Baby, I don't think I can wait.” 

I drop my bag and said, “Then don't.” 

He wraps his coat around us both making a cocoon. I feel his warm breath
against my neck and his hardness against my thigh. I undo his belt 
buckle as he pushes the button that stops the elevator completely. He 
pins me against the wall as he lifts up my skirt. He slowly kneels as 
he cradles me in his arms laying me on the floor. As we make love, he 
whispers, “Please, Baby, don't ever leave me.” 

In the apartment, I see flowers. I walk to the table and look at them.
He is standing behind me and when I give him that questioning look. 
“Did you know that we were...?”  He shakes his head. 

“You always put some there when you came home. Nina, you don't know what
an empty space you left behind.”  He looks away. He's really 
embarrassed now. 

I look at the flowers, fingering the petals. The pink, the red all start
to merge together through my tears. I croak, “Oh, Jack.” 

“Nina, don't cry. Here, let me get you a --.”  He opens a virtually
empty refrigerator.” 

I find it impossible not to say again, “Oh, Jack.” 

“Nina,” he slams the door shut. “Quit saying that. It's not that
pathetic. Not now.” 

“Yea, it is. How we both put our lives on hold. What does that say about
us?” 

He sits on the sofa staring up at me. “I don't know about you, but it
says that the past months have been hell. And I've discovered I'm a 
better person, a saner person with you than without you.” 

I sit beside him and he pulls me close to him. I find that hollow space
in his shoulder to rest my head. “You're wrong, Jack. You do know about 
me.” 

He whispers, “Let's go to bed.” 

“Jack?” 

“You know how antsy I get with a couple weeks of not touching you?  Can
I guess how I feel after a couple months? 

I start to say something and he interrupts, “And if you start to say,
“Oh, Jack', I'll --.” 

I loop my arms around his neck.  I smile and say, “You'll what?” 

He slips his hand under my shirt. “I'll never let you go.” 

The night before I go back to Atlanta, we go to a Yankees game. We run
into an old friend of mine. Ernan was a professor when I attended NYU. 
He was responsible for my first job as a photographer, and had remained 
a lifelong mentor and friend. 

After introductions, he asked me about the offer from NYU. It was a
long-standing offer to teach a photojournalism class. I had thought 
about it at one time, but Atlanta' job pressures had removed it from 
consideration. Just before Ernan leaves, we make plans to have dinner 
at his home the next evening. 

After Ernan left, I feel a lingering questioning glance from Jack.


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