I made paper cranes in the living room, sitting beside him. I told him, "These are for you; for luck, and also for your wife, too. Maybe luck will bring her back. You deserve to be happy, like me." I didn't sound convincing, especially to myself.

Leigh sat in the dim of the lounge, sprawled in his chair, staring blankly at the TV screen, his mouth working. For a moment it gave him the look of an over-large rabbit. Sometimes when he looked like this, I was startled by my attraction to him. He had a strange, troubling face. It looked different from various angles as if there were more than one of him, changing masks. For one hallucinatory instant I saw an Aztec priest holding a twitching heart. His head moved and the illusion was lost as the light altered and the lines hardened again into the features of the man I loved.

"Do you still love her?" I asked. 

He didn't look at me. "No." 

"Is she coming back?"

"No... Do you love him?" 

"Yes."

"I wish we had never met." 

"Who? You and she... or you and me?"

"Both."

My lips were swollen from chewing at them; a nervous habit since childhood.

"We can't be friends, ever, you know," he said. 

"Why? Why's that?"

"Don't be stupid. I want you too much."

"Oh. Right. Well, I've made my bed elsewhere, and besides, with my luck we'd be caught and Rich would kill me, or at least make me pay for the rest of my natural life."

"See... it's useless." The statement sounded more like a question. " I know... I still adore you, you know."

I shifted a bit closer.

"Don't. Don't come an inch closer. Don't look at me, I can't bear it."

A blue fog filled the room, flickering like the Northern Lights: the TV running an infomercial. 

"I've missed you," I offered.

He looked over, at last."I want you."

"I know."

"You didn't come downstairs to make cranes, did you?" His features shifted again, and something like panic wound around the arousal growing within me.

There is the smell of fear and the smell of desire: fear like malt vinegar and rust, desire like molten skin, thick with musk. I wondered if he could smell it on me, and which scent dominated. He rose; silently and swiftly sprung from his resting place and for the first time in an aeon I saw the jaguars behind his eyes, padding again on large, quiet, cat feet. Years before, I wanted to stalk them and kill them and wear their skins as my own. Now, they also caused me fear, as desire slowed my speech, thickened my tongue, made me wet; achy between the legs. His features shifted, and became cat-like, too. I saw this with clarity; watching the arc of his nose wrinkle and his lips pull away from his teeth.

He was smiling. I could see his teeth; long eye teeth, like fangs. They were blue, too, in that light. He dropped to his knees and moved to where I sat frozen; nuzzled my ear, brushed my mouth; a shark bumping its prey before the kill. What did he smell? The sour of fear or the sweet of want? The blood beneath my skin, copper and cinnamon?

My mouth was filled: cool and broad, his tongue moved powerfully against mine; against the backs of my teeth, under my lips; teeth quietly clicking against teeth, fucking my mouth with his. The sound of my pulse rushed, filled the air and deafened me.

We moved around the room, stumbling over furniture, mouths locked, hands exploring, breathless. He was hard against my belly, moving subtly, breathing raggedly. I was murmuring something like, "I can't, I'm...I'm...", and my resolve began to falter; cat feet knocking it down from behind.

He moved my hand, and held it there, and for moments I traced his long, slim outline, feeling him push back. I fumbled with his belt. He clutched me harder and exhaled; harsh, guttural.

"Oh Christ!"

"What? Don't you want to?" I asked.

"I'm sorry."

"What for? It's ok, really, be cool. I want to..." 

"I came. I''m sorry, I didn't mean to...I came." A small dark stain began to emerge through the denim high up on his thigh. "Shit." He tried to smile, but the effect was more like a grimace. The cats had slipped into the night: dark fronds, vines, hung over his eyes.

"I should go..." 

"I didn''t mean to...I''m so sorry, Bee..."

Climbing the stairs, swollen and wanting, I made my way back to Rich. He snored quietly. As I stretched beside him I wondered if he would be able to sense it when I roused him; if he could smell my fear and desire, if he could smell him on me; behind my ears, in my mouth. For the first time, ever, he allowed me to waken him, to stir and take him on my terms. We thrashed mercilessly for what seemed like hours, his prodding and churning coaxing my waning menses into florid bloom again. When he came I cried long jagged sobs into his chest. He thought I'd come too, and petted my head and whispered gentle things in my ear. 

I woke with bouquets of roses, camellias, painted upon our sheets. Rich slept. Leigh slept. I lay awake, scented with blood, waiting for the jaguars to come and feed. 

Copyright © 2000-2001 Helena Settimana. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.