My hands were in her hair and tracing her eyes, fingering her mouth, pausing in the hollow of her throat. I wanted to touch every single part of her. But even as I lost myself in the silk of her skin and the sway of her movements against me, I felt the horror rise up inside of me and shimmer beneath my skin. It wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be enough, and I knew it, even as I closed my eyes and tried to make it be enough. I couldn’t breathe and my heart raced, and for a moment I thought I would tell her everything.
She must have mistaken my fear for hesitation, the cessation of my breath for something else, because she cradled my face in her hands and pressed her forehead to mine. And then she whispered my name.
“David, David, David.” It sounded like a song when she said it. And she kissed my lips softly.
“David, David, David.” She chanted my name, like she couldn’t believe it was true, like she liked the way it felt in her mouth.
“I love the way you call me David,” I said, and remembered the line from my silly song, the line that had no rhyme.
“I love that you are mine,” she breathed, and the fear left me for a time. It tiptoed away and love took its place, love and belonging and time that can’t be stolen. Millie said she had to feel to see, and she saw all of me. Her fingers traced the contours of my back like she was reading a map, following a river to the sea across a long expanse, over valleys and hills. She was thorough and attentive, her lips and cheeks following her fingers, her tongue testing the textures that needed more attention. When Millie made love she actually made love. She created it, drew it, coaxed it into being. I’d always hated that term and preferred a little baser description, maybe because it felt more honest. But with Millie, nothing else fit. And she didn’t just make love, she made me love. She made me listen. She made me feel. She made me pay attention. I didn’t hurry or take. I didn’t rush or push. I closed my eyes and loved the same way she did, with the tips of my fingers and the palms of my hands, and I saw her so clearly that my eyes burned behind my closed lids.
She was confident in a way she shouldn’t have been, confident in a way that is born from knowing you are loved, and I reveled in that. She wasn’t the girl in sexy lingerie, wondering if she should pose her body this way or that. She was a woman deeply in love and completely lost in the experience. She didn’t ask me what I liked or what I wanted. She didn’t hesitate or hold back. She didn’t plead for pretty words or reassurance.
But I gave them anyway.
I gave them because they fell from my mouth, and I pressed them to her ears, needing her to know how much I loved her, how perfect I found her, how precious the moment was. And she whispered back, matching each expression with affection, gifting words with caresses, until the effort to speak became too great and the words felt inadequate. When she reached the peak she pulled me over the edge with her, and I wished we could just keep on falling and never stop. Falling would feel like flying if you never hit the ground. But the landing was soft and our breathing slowed, and I pulled her in tight as the world righted itself. Or wronged me. I wasn’t sure which. Millie was pliant and sleepy in my arms, and I felt her drifting off.
“I love you, Millie. Do you know that?” I said.
“Yes.” She said the word on a long, satisfied sigh, as if the knowledge was wonderful.
“You have your favorite sounds, and now, so do I. I love it when my back is turned, and I hear you coming. I love the sound your stick makes. When I hear it, it makes me smile. I love your voice and the way you laugh from your chest. It’s one of the first things I noticed about you. That laugh.” I felt her smile, her lips moving softly against my throat.
“I love that little breath, the little gasp in your throat when I touch you here.” I pressed my hand to her lower back and pulled her tightly against me. Her breath hitched on cue. “That’s it. That’s the sound.”
Millie kissed my chest but didn’t speak. I counted to sixty slowly, and then I continued, whispering so softly and so unhurriedly she was sure to fall asleep.
“And you hum. You hum when you’re happy. You hum when you run your fingers through my hair and when you’re falling asleep. You are almost humming now.”
There was silence in the room, and I knew she’d slid under the downy blanket of slumber. It was what I’d intended. I’d waited until she was gone.
“I want to hear that sound every night of my life.” I felt the panic rise up in my throat, not knowing how many nights I would have and not wanting to think about that when I was holding her. With the panic came tears, and they leaked out the corners of my eyes and dripped into my ears.
“I love you, Millie. And it’s the most amazing feeling, the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. I can’t hold it in my chest, that feeling. So it spills out of me whenever you’re around. It spills out of my mouth and my eyes and my ears. It spills out of my fingertips and makes me walk faster and talk louder and feel more alive. Do you feel like that, Millie? Do I make you feel more alive?”
Her deep, soft breaths were my only response, and I kissed the top of her head.
“How can I possibly be dying when I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before?”
I CREPT INTO Henry’s room at about dawn. I wanted to see him, just in case. Just in case the news was bad and I didn’t come back. I wanted to say goodbye, even if it was temporary, even if he couldn’t hear me. He looked big in the small bed, his long feet and knobby knees sticking out from beneath the covers. He needed a new bed. I made a note to tell Millie and then stopped myself. What had Millie said? She’d been taking care of herself before she met me, and she’d be taking care of herself, and Henry, after I was gone. They’d been taking care of each other.