I don't know how long we held each other in that bed. The house quieted. My heart stilled. Our whispers muffled until I fell into a deep sleep wrapped in his arms.
My slumber was confused yet untroubled-- laced with two reoccurring dreams: one, a dream I'd had since adolescence where naked men throw pickles at me (big, fat koshers-- not the dainty gherkins I detest); the other, a dream I'd had since I'd graduated from college where I search for a story I'm writing on my old Pentium Pro. I click on the file and instead of my story, the Wheel of Fortune appears on my monitor with Vanna White asking for a vowel. I type an A, then a buzzer sounds. The old computer does the Bill Gates shuffle and starts its search all over again. I spin again. Vanna repeats. Each time I ask for a different vowel, but there aren't any. I'm doomed in Microsoft hell.
I woke up feverish from my word processing conundrum, but life was good. I smiled as I tucked my leg over his. His response: he snuggled closer and sighed as his forehead pressed against my neck. I counted his pulse beats as I pulled the quilt tighter around us. Within seconds, something akin to panic came over me.
What if this wasn't real? What if none of this was?
I touched his nose. Felt real. Those limbs intertwined with mine were solid and warm. That early morning wood was real too. This near, dear intimacy terrified yet elated me-- I had never felt this passion for anyone,
ever
. As my finger traced his freckles in the moonlight, Hec woke: his eyes fluttered then opened wide. That lopsided grin greeted me, then lips turned to a frown.
"Are you ok?" he asked. He felt my head with the flat of his hand; I felt the cool of a ring. "You're sweating. God, you're burning up." He sat up in bed, flicked on the lamp, then looked at the clock. It blinked 3:12 a.m. "It's time for more Tylenol. I'll get you some water. Stay right here."
I watched him pad off, then closed my eyes. He was real. I was real. No doubt that what I felt for him above and below the waste was real. I was dizzy, my mouth was dry, and my cock was hard; I knew I was in love with Hector Lodge.
I opened my eyes to the mural of porn above and began to laugh. I counted twenty-two acts in all between my hysterics. I recalled there was some sort of significance to that number, but in my state, I couldn't place the import. I held back another fit of laughter and studied the figures carefully for the first time. Henry had a gift, that was certain-- each form was gracefully carved. I wondered if he carved this bed before or after Johann-- I'd assumed from the diary it was before, yet something in me wondered if maybe some of these figures might be them. I had to admit the voyeur inside me liked the idea.
I hadn't noticed the facial expressions until that moment, which ranged from coy bliss to outright ecstasy. I touched two lovers above me in the fourth frame just as Hec stepped back into the room, his face a picture of concern. He retrieved the Tylenol from the night stand, then felt my forehead again.
"Take these," he said, handing me the cool glass. I did as I was told-- swallowed my medicine-- not good to cross your nurse. He sat next to me, eyes flicking to what had caught my interest.
"Four looks intriguing to me," he said, licking his lips. I nodded. Great minds think alike.
"Want to try it?" I added.
"I think we should wait-- at least until your fever goes down." He slipped in beside me, and I tried to hide my disappointment. "We could do number six before--"
I studied six. Legs over shoulders, mouths together. I wasn't
that
flexible-- but maybe Hec was--
"Six?"
"Four is good. We
could
do it before--"
"Bingo!"
"What?" he blinked.
"B-four. Like, you know, in Bingo!"
"Where's that thermometer? I think you're seriously ill--"
"I don't think so. I mean, you could take my core temperature," I said wickedly. I thought about having him take it rectally, but no, that might be pushing Nurse Hector too far.
"But what about Bingo?" he asked, shaking his head doubtfully.
"I'm not delirious. I thought I was hearing and seeing things, but you seem to be under the same delusion so I figure I'm fine other than a touch of the flu."
"But Bingo? That's a dog, right? The dog that ate the baby?"
I slid my arm around Hec's back, pulling him close to me. His head fit perfect on my shoulder. Time to explain the facts of life according to Bingo-ology to Hec. It might get messy. "No, that's a Dingo," I explained. "Haven't you ever been to a Bingo hall? No? Well, that's where this secret society plays this game called Bingo. These chain-smoking old ladies play with chips and cards. Some of them even win money. And then there's the song with the dog, 'B-I-N-G-O and Bingo was his name-O!' You weren't a Cub Scout, were you? Hmm, guess not. Now, the dingo that ate the baby? Hmm... wasn't there an Australian couple who got convicted of killing their child and said a dingo did it?"
"And all that time I just thought it was a fictional band."
"Band?"
"The Dingo Ate My Baby is that band in Buffy the Vampire Slayer."
I frowned into his hair. Hec beat me at TV trivia. He must be right-- I
must
be seriously ill. Time to get out the rectal thermometer. Had to one-up him-- "The dingo really did kill their baby. I remember."
It didn't impress.
"I was thinking," Hec said, throwing his leg over mine.
"Um, yeah?"
He tucked the covers under our chins.
"What did you say in the stairwell-- to my sister?"
My tongued knotted up. No more Bingo stories.
I blushed. Maybe it was the fever, maybe the heavy quilt or maybe his hot aura. I cleared my throat. He turned his head and looked me square in the eyes.
"Can I have another sip of water?" I asked sheepishly.
Coward, I'm such a coward.
"No," he said slowly. "I'm sure that's
not
what you said to my sister."
"Do you mean 'no' I can't have any water, or 'no' that's not what I said to your sister?"
