Two Can Love, If One Is Dead

Two Can Love, If One Is Dead
by
Bobby Derie

They smoked, in bed, passing the cigarette back and forth. Burnt throats were eased with sips of cherry wine. Outside the window, the sun hovered above the Sierras.

"Thank you Clark, I believe I needed that," the brunette smiled as she handed him the cigarette and set down her glass. With her now free-hands she set about putting up her mass of brown curls, letting her breasts hang free. Clark took a drag and enjoyed the view.

"My dear, it is I that should thank you. It is rare to find anyone in this town so refreshingly...open-minded."

She stuck out a pink tongue, then let a hand fall down to cover her nipples. "Poor boy, so lonely for company. How many lonely housewives have fallen for that act?"

He said nothing, but took a drag, laid down his own glass on a side-table, and holding the cigarette in his left hand, swung his leg around to face her, naked, on the bed. Very carefully, never breaking eye contact, he breathed out of the corner of his mouth. She was the first to look away, but his hand caught her chin and gently brought her face forward for a kiss - a very chaste kiss. She smiled and opened her eyes to his unblinking stare.

"We are neither of us the other's first, darling. I am not a homewrecker, nor do I wish to despoil some young virgin - where is the fun in that? An hour's pleasure, a few stolen kisses to light up an otherwise boring and eventless life - so long as we both are mutually agreeable, why not have a little fun."

She took the cigarette from him. "You don't want to tell me you love me, Clark?"

With her left hand, she reached down to stroke that which was between them.

"I did have the love-sickness once - a blonde. We were scarcely more than children when her illness claimed her." The brunette's arm never stopped working as he stared at her. "Now that she has passed, the memory of her haunts me; and in honor of it, I prefer brunettes. Because you know that they say," he leaned into her, and she fell back, letting the cigarette fall into the wine glass on the table, "two can love, if one is dead."

###

Infidelity

Infidelity
by
Bobby Derie

They broke the kiss with a blush, and May turned away with a smile, hefting her suitcase. The taste of her lingered on his lips as he waved at the taxi as it pulled away. He waited until the bumper disappeared rounding the great oak tree, and quietly closed the door.

Dawnlight spilled into the breakfast nook as he spread out the paper and poured the tea. The steam rose and filled the air with the scent of ginger and citrus. Almost absentmindedly, he had set out two places, and smiled at the second cup as it cooled. Before him, the tiny black runes on the dead gray paper seemed determined not to give up their secrets. So he sat back and drank his tea, watching the steam rise from the second cup. The warp and weft reminded him of her, how she would hold the mug with both hands, eyes closed, and just bathe her face in it, as if trying to absorb all the essence of the tea at once through her skin.

Morning found him in the library; all interest in the now forgotten as he delved into the past. Some of the books were his, others from his father's and grandfather's collections, and two full bookshelves built into the walls had come preloaded with dusty, cracked leather-bound tomes from one of the previous occupants. The dust motes floated in the still sunlight as he rummaged among the shelf, tiny clouds of particles seeming to hang for a moment in outlines of a familiar shape before falling back again.

Night stole into the bedroom, where without a thought he had pulled down the covers on her side of the bed, and puffed out the candle flame. Through the window, the city light spilled in and gave strange shape to to the darkness and the thin curl of smoke. His lay awake, eyes settling into the darkness, colors muting into shades of black and blue-grey. Something about the sway of the trees and the smoke gave the illusion of ringlets of hair falling around an unseen head, tresses which did little to hide the shape of the breasts they spilled over. Sleep, when it came, found him wondering at the shape and heaviness of those unfamiliar teats.

She was there again the kitchen, as he instinctively poured the second cup. He could see her more clearly now, through the steam. Long straight hair, eyes that curled up at the corners, the ghost of a ghost of a smile on the shadow lips. He read the news aloud to her, eyes flicking through the articles at random, picking out words that became an impromptu poem. Again, by instinct, he became aware of the words, began to shape the narrative. There was a theme there, though he could not name it, and when he turned the last page the tea in both cups was cool.

The shade in the library was different, this morning; the light warmer, the dust settled as he came in. Yet there were three books he had taken down from the shelf and laid out the other day - and the shape, the curve of the spines as they lay there, was evocative of another, more familiar shape. Shaking his head, he fell into the researching, pen and pad at the ready to catalog, stopping every now and then when the subject matter was particularly interesting, or by an author he knew. Almost without being aware of it he felt her then, as the dust rose up around him in the golden sunlight. She seemed to be ignoring him, lazing idly in the bright patch on the floor like a cat. Not the same, he could see. The hair was curly, not straight, the hips too wide, the mouth too generous... With a dull thud, he clapped the book shut and set it back into its spot on the shelf.

He drank, before bed, and lounged long in his chair. The afternoon had been long hours of dread, and he avoided the bedroom, the library, the breakfast nook. The merits of an alcoholic slumber here, in the den, had its appeal...and yet, and yet. The brandy swirled in the glass. What if they found him here?

Midnight found him slipping between the sheets, but his heart beat too fast. The moon hid its face tonight, and the darkness had grown to cover most of the room. He waited, a slight feverish flush coming to his head and cheeks. Minutes slipped into hours, and still he lay awake, mind going back again and again to those shapes, those shades, those echoes of women, none of whom were May...

When the clock struck softly, and the wind was still, he saw her then. A thing of shadow, she walked towards him on long legs, the light giving just enough definition to her form - bony, taut, but the thinness that spoke of losing too much weight too quickly, the breasts unnatural mounds on a figure where you could count the ribs. A hand reached out to him, and the skin was not smooth or young, but webbed with the arches of veins and small, powerful muscles. He couldn't move, he realized, as she drew back the cover. At her mercy, the finger touched his shoulder - a caress like burning ice, there and then gone as she pulled it away. No pressure, no lasting pain, just the sensation. She touched him again, and his body tensed automatically, still not under his control, and withdrew. Again and again, fingers exploring him, the shape of him, the touches lasting longer each time, and each time he tensed less as he got used to the sensation. Before he knew it he shivered with a different kind of anticipation, he recognized the beat she was using, the direction her hands were traveling. Burning ice slipped down his pants and gripped his scrotum, and as he lay there panting, her smile was a wicked slash of midnight, a blackness darker than the night.

The dawnshade he called Miko. She waited for him, every day, to make her tea, and listened with wrapt attention as he read the paper to her, sometimes reading the news out loud, sometimes once more playing one of his little poetic games. Her smile chased back the shadows of the night, the odd aches and scratches that should not have been there, the cold ache between his legs. Sometimes, as he turned the pages, he felt the brush of a hand or arm against his own, a bright warmth like contact with a cat. He could see her much more clearly now, as the steam rose from the cup; he could make out the little bruises on her throat, where the chain had been wrapped. When the tea was cool, and the paper done, he would excuse himself and head to the library.

The bookwife sprawled outside her shelf, the stacks of old leather tremendously suggestive of her curves. He read to her too, while the light lasted, lying down to spoon around her while the sunlight lasted. Sometimes they slept that way, in the afternoons, and he woke to find his arm stiff and half asleep, and strands of hair too long to be his laying here or there. Once, they had spelled out in perfect cursive, the word "Ginger." So that is what he called her, during those daily trysts.

With night came the hag. She never rode him, never spoke nor cuddled. Somehow he felt she was always there, watching, as he prepared for bed, laying down the covers, lighting the candle and pinching it out, so the smoke trailed up to the ceiling. Waiting for the moment. She liked to let him wait, as much as he liked waiting. He had learned to like it.

One morning the door cracked, the hinges squeaked. Outside, a car engine was running. "Honey!" He could hear the smile. "I'm home!"

###

Cookie

Cookie
by
Bobby Derie

Settling in the chair next to the hospital bed, she slips her big purple mitt into his furry blue paw and waits for the night to take her. His breathing was deep and gravely, a burr that started deep in his chest and rumbled outward; she’d grown used to it, over the years, and just listening to that growling purr put her in mind of sleep. Soon, she knows, he’ll start to talk in his sleep, as he always does. She waits for it, the unconscious smack of his lips followed by the low, groaning, drawn out “Coo-ookiee-ee…”

They had met years ago, while working in Hollywood. There was a golden arches just across the street from the studio lot, and she’d sneaked over to steal a milkshake. He had been there, fists full of those little dry wafers they passed off as cookies, terrorizing parents and thrilling children. She didn’t know what he saw in her—she was little more than a big purple blob with arms and legs back then. Before she knew it, he’d talked her back to his place to make her some cookies…for breakfast, it turned out. They’d been together ever since.

It was a quiet ceremony, mostly family; her parents, his parents, Uncle O’Grimacey whom she hadn’t seen in years, even Jim—neither of them had expected that, but she could tell that her big blue monster was touched he showed up. A cookie cake, naturally. After that their careers had kept them on their feet, busy schedules. She had only ever gotten work in television, and less and less of that lately, but he had managed a few films even with his health problems, plus the residuals—songs, merchandise, guest appearances. They’d done well.

The diabetes didn’t really come as a surprise, to either of them. They’d both had to adjust their eating habits. A “lifestyle change” is what the doctors and producers had called for, but it was so much harder for him. It was who he was. She still remembered him crying after the reviews, right after “a sometime snack.” Yet he kept at it. Fruits and veggies, anything that would crunch, but it wasn’t enough. His sugars would get too high, and he couldn’t manage it just with diet and exercise. He had always been active, but at his size, to get the weight off, it was hard.

The arrival of a night nurse interrupted her reverie.

“Sorry Mrs. G, just have to change his catheter.” The young woman said.

“Go right ahead, dear.” she said, reaching back for a protein shake.

“Coo-ookiee-ee…” he mumbled in his sleep.

The nurse frowned at that, looked like she might say something.

“Oh, it’s not what you think.” she said, big smile stretching from one side of her to the other, giving his paw a little squeeze. “That was his nickname for me. He always loved his Cookie.”

The nurse smiled and got back to work, turning back the sheets. One of the blue furry legs ended abruptly in a bandage-wrapped stump.

###

Lies Between Us

Lies Between Us
by
Bobby Derie

Mara and Emilie shared the flat, and they shared the bed. Mara would bring home French films and they would curl up on the couch and watch them over dinner on the little square plates Emilie had bought, and Emilie would bring home little apparat novels in Russian and English and line them up on a shelf for Mara to borrow. Sometimes in the night the attacks would come, wheezing and gasping for breath, and they would hold each other until the morning light broke across the frozen river out of the east window. Then Emilie would make tea for them both, and it would be all right.

They never asked each other their real names.

Emilie would leave in the mornings, after making tea, and be away most of the day. Mara’s schedule was more erratic; a life lived on the end of a cellphone, gone sometimes for days and lonely nights, coming back bedraggled and tired, letting Emily strip her out of her clothes and draw her into the bath to wash the scents of airports and foreign places off of her. Sometimes even the nights would be stolen from them, and Mara would return and set her overnight bag down next to the empty spot where Emilie’s should be in the closet, where it always was when they were together. Side by side.

They never asked each other about their past.

Once, Mara had come home to find Emilie in the bathroom with the door open, naked to the waist and picking splinters of bone out of her arm with a pair of tweezers in her left hand and making a bit of a mess of it. Neither said anything when Mara came and took over; Emilie just sat with her breasts naked to the air as Mara’s knowing hands washed away the blood, applied the antiseptic, dug out the bits of bone and other shrapnel and laid them in the sea shell on the sink which Emilie had brought home from the beach to hold their soap, and applied a field dressing. When all was done they kissed, and Mara put Emilie to bed.

They never asked each other who they worked for.

Once, Emilie walked in as Mara was cleaning her handguns on the kitchen table—small things that might fit in a pocket or a purse, each of which could fit in a three inch square. Mara didn’t look up as Emilie went into their bedroom, didn’t look up until Em laid her own weapon down and began to dissemble it. Then Mara raised an eyebrow, and Emilie beamed her slight, tight-lipped smile, and they had something else they could do in front of each other, something else to talk and discuss and laugh about at afternoons and after midnight when neither one could sleep.

They never spoke about what they did.

The week of the embassy bombings was hectic for both of them. The apartment was empty most of the time, both overnight bags gone from the closet. Emilie came home first, when the curfews were over and the alert downgraded, and spent the nights and days watching the news, the manhunts, and hugging Mara’s pillow, smelling her. She didn’t pray, because Emilie had ceased to pray a long time ago, but she hoped. When Mara finally staggered in, haggard and rough, Em cried silly tears and held her on the couch until they both fell asleep. There were sirens in the city that night, and gunshots, but it never broke the peace of the flat.

They never spoke about the future.

Emilie had brought a man home. His scent was in their bed, the condom floating in the toilet. Mara took in the mussed sheets on the unmade bed, the wet spot, the mocking emptiness where Emilie’s overnight bag should have been, in the closet. Mara sat on the bed and did not cry, and did not know if she should wait, or for how long. It was night when Em returned, and she sat down next to Mara on the bed. Emilie took Mara’s hand in hers, and Mara let her. Mara set her head on Emilie’s shoulder, and Em let her. They stayed like that for a long time.

“I can’t.” Em said.

“I know.” Mara said.

“It wasn’t…” Em scrunched up her face. “I should have found a hotel.”

“No.” Mara said. “You needed a place. Somewhere lived in.”

“There was nowhere else.”

Mara squeezed her hand. “I’m glad.”

In the spring the winter thawed and ran fluid again, and they took a long vacation at a cold, pebbly beach away from it all, and laughed at movies and shared their books and cleaned their guns. Then they came home, and Mara’s cellphone rang.

“You better answer it.”

Emilie packed Mara’s going away bag, and gave it to her with a kiss as she left.

###

An Arm & A Leg

An Arm & A Leg

by

Bobby Derie

A blind, probing finger poked into the soft, warm flesh of a thigh, and stopped. The leg quivered in place, but did not pull away. Hesitant, the finger traced a small circle on the yielding skin, feeling the fine little hairs, trying not to press too hard, then pulled away for a moment to reposition itself. The arm rested on the heel of the hand, and brought other fingers to bear.

The sudden absence of the presence left only the memory of it on the leg—the small, warm intruder, a soft bulbous tip covering something…harder, firmer. Then the presence returned—more of them this time. Three or four separate things caressed the small of the small of the back of the thigh, began exploring the soft flank. The leg’s toes curled in on themselves.

The hand gripped the knee suddenly, roughly, the thick body of the forearm slapping against the thigh, blunt stub of a thumb almost digging in to the bony joint. The leg thrashed, rocked on its heel, and fell over, dragging the arm with it. A blind kick sent the arm away, fingers flailing like a dying spider. The arm landed palm up, stunned.

The hand gyrated, trying to right itself. A subtle, rhythmic tremor ran through the floor, the banging steps of the leg. The rough callused sole laid itself against the wrist, pressing down with all its weight, pinning the arm to the ground. The big toe ran its great nail along the outside of the thumb—not hard enough to scratch, or draw blood, but the arm shook at the gesture.

The thumb moved to meet the big toe, and for a few moments all the awareness of arm and leg seemed to be focused at that little dance of touches. No longer did the thumb rudely press or try to catch, but now bent double to run slowly along the toe to the great bony joint, and the toe in turn teased at the tiny hairs along the knuckle and the base of the palm. The heel lifted, and the arm did not move as the leg bent carefully to lay beside the arm, elbow settled into the crook of the knee.

They lay like that for a long while, just feeling the heat from each other’s flesh, the tiny dab of perspiration, the strange alien feel of other flesh. Then the hand begin to explore—gently this time, palm against the base of the foot, fingers playing with toes that played back, examining the shape of the foot, the contour of bone and muscle. Tentatively, the fingers pressed harder into the muscles of the foot, massaging.

The hand worked its way down the leg, fingers moving over the great calf muscle toward the thigh, when the leg slowly rolled over. The arm went limp, flat but wary as the toes dragged the creeping foot onto the back of the arm—and now it was the foot giving the massage, with a rougher, undulating motion as the foot rocked forward and backwards, inching itself along.

The arm and the leg wrestled and felt each other up for what seemed like hours, till both were sore and tired. Then the arm lay down and wrapped itself around the leg, and they drifted off to sleep.

###

Zippergirl

Zippergirl

by

Bobby Derie

“Hey, check it. Zippergirl.”

It was a college party, and she wasn’t showing off. I picked up her seams, followed them until they disappeared into low-cut ripped jeans and a t-shirt, and where the outline of tabs were visible on her breasts, where the nipples should be. She smiled and laughed with her friends, eyes peering out from a horizontal flesh-seam edged with metal teeth, tabs jingling on the right side of her face. Wondered if that meant she was right-handed or left. She noticed me, looking at her. We stole glances, eyes catching as we maneuvered from conversation to hello, edging closer to each other. When there was a body’s length between us she sauntered over, green glass bottle in hand, girlfriends forgotten. Tiny metal teeth grazed my cheek as she stood up to whisper in my ear.

“You want me to unzip you?”

The bathroom was cramped and dark, the sounds of the party came through the walls and up through the floor, the only light what shone around the door frame. Her mouth tasted of Rolling Rock and pennies. She had her elbows up on his shoulders, they broke off to stare at each other. The zippers made a mask of her face, a caricature: the bald head with the almost-hidden central seam, the wide open gap above her nose where the eyes poked out, the crude gash of a mouth. Her lips were painted mouth within mouth, teeth within teeth, as she smiled and undid my fly. There was a gentle scrape along my length, then a line of hard metal things pressed into the flesh at the base of my crotch, and I didn’t know if they belonged to her teeth or mine. I placed my hands on the head, eyes closed. It was soft, like a padded leather cushion. My right hand followed that seam down, down to the side of her neck, and found the catch. She paused as I slowly unzipped her, hair spilling out. She looked up at me, on her knees, hair unbound, the zipper marking the point of her widow’s peak.

“I didn’t say you could unzip me.”

The zipper grafts were fragile, seams of synthetic bio-friendly synthetics woven into the skin, chained together with metal or plastic. Skin was elastic, but it needed time to stretch and accommodate. Too much force could cause them to rip or tear, and then infection might set in. Scarring. I asked her questions, let her talk about it. The culture, the people. Care maintenance. How she had to keep clean, what had happened to people that didn’t take care of it. The real perverts, the ones that gave the scene the bad name. We flirted. I asked about her first, and she showed me, on her shoulder blade: a secret pocket to hide a tattoo from the light, so it wouldn’t fade. We talked for hours; weeks and months went by. She let me sit with her through the next procedure. The fold had been prepared months in advanced, a prosthetic stretching the flesh across her belly. I held her hand as the artist made the incision, inserted the weave. He had a hand-held sewing machine that punched the thread in on each side, tested the action of the zipper.

“I wanted you to see how it was done.”

Sometimes she would dance for me, a complicated little burlesque, shedding clothes one zip at a time. She wasn’t truly naked or exposed, even without clothes. She could walk down the street topless, zipper-decent, offending nipples and vagina hidden away from the world. I learned she liked to be explored. To have hands run over the hard teeth and ridges of skin along the seams. She gasped when I pressed the tabs that hid her nipples and labia, grinding the buttons into the softe, shadowed flesh. Sometimes she wanted to be unzipped slowly, one tooth at a time. Then I would pull it open fast and she would squeak at the sudden exposure of hidden flesh. She shuddered when I explored those pockets of flesh, with probing tongue or finger. At times I would crush her toward me, arms wrapped around her, hands and all buried in her, my tongue fucking the zippocket on the side of her head to lick at her ear, and she would moan.

“So full…”

She started getting me into the harder stuff, a little at a time. Little zippers along each finger could be closed, leaving her only with grasping paws. An industrial double seam down her legs, to close them from the world, and I would have to take her bent over, from behind. Sometimes she liked it with her mouth and eyes and ears zipped off too, cut off from the world except for those sensations here and there where I touched it, penetrated her, zipped and unzipped her. There were special seams along her thigh that exposed living muscle, where every painful touch was like fucking a fresh wound, and we grew bolder, more elaborate. Sometimes I would lie awake at night and stare at her swelling belly, thinking how far she was along. Eyeing the great zipper that went along the ridge of muscle there, in front of the womb, huge flat metal teeth forming a mechanical highway down to the huge triangular tab hanging down over her crotch. One night as she slept I grasped it, toyed with it, pulled a little. The first couple teeth separated, and I felt something dark and wet by the hole. Her hand found mine, on the zipper, each finger edged with coiled plastic teeth.

“Don’t…”

###

Setting Sun

A man in a faded lab coat stands before a counter, tapping a needle. He holds it up to the dim electric bulb, squeezing the last bubble of air out. His index finger caresses the flawless glass as he examines the colorless fluid inside. The room is not chill, but a shiver runs through him. The night is not particularly warm, but a cold sweat beads his brow. For a moment, nothing else exists for him but the needle. It calls to him, and the hollow of his arm aches in response. Something in him enjoys the wanting. The grim hunger that promises fulfillment pervades him, and he fights the urge to give in just yet.

            From beneath a gentle brow his dark eyes drift from the syringe to the countertop, where there is nothing to entice him. Just another old veteran of this campaign, scarred by many battles; the beauty of the wood marred by dark stains and ugly scratches. Dr. Takonashi could not ignore the stains; he had seen too many of their sources. Too many times reaching out a gore-covered hand to find a tool had left a lingering legacy. Pained by the memories more than the crook of his arm, he turned to focus on something else.

            Behind the curtain, he hears the patients in this makeshift infirmary moan and scream and whimper. They are so close to him, yet so far away. Blocked by the meager barrier Takonashi erected for the suggestion of privacy from blind eyes and weeping sores. The cloth wall kept them out of his sight, but he could still hear their pain.

            Takonashi’s shoulders dip in exhaustion, but he cannot rest. Sleep is difficult; fitful and unsatisfying. Even when they die away to fitful sleep, the screams of the patients echo in the space behind his eyes, and would not go away. Images come to him, unbidden: caverns of raw flesh exposed by bloody tears from swollen, sightless eyes. A portrait of the emperor who failed on display at the officer’s mess. Himself, standing in front of a mirror donning his new uniform the day after he graduated from the University, the same day he joined the Army. Burning the last photograph of his parents after he hears of their death.

            Beyond the curtain, one of the patients begins screaming again. A man. The doctor realizes that the needle is still in his hand.

            The needle would stop the screams for a moment. He would open the curtain, and find the man by the sound of his screams, find the vein by touch with his experienced fingers, plunge the needle in and…the screams would stop. The man’s eyes will dilate, and the patient’s pain would be washed into another world.

            It is what he should do. His pain is as nothing to his patients. Takonashi does not move toward the sound of the screams. In his hand, the needle weighs heavier than its physical substance would suggest. Cold sweat stings his eyes, and the doctor knows his decision was made before this bout of guilt.
            With practiced ease the tourniquet is drawn. The doctor’s fingers tingle and go numb. Takonashi places the needle's gleaming tip against near the same spot as he had the day before, and the day before that. The wounds are ugly, puckered things, never allowed to heal. His pale blue veins stand out, rivers along the sallow geography of his arm.
            Behind the curtain that separates him from the infirmary, the doctor’s pain is drowned in the ecstasy of morphine. The weight of the world lifts from his shoulders and his eyes become flat and glassy. Tears he had been about to cry never fall from eyes that sit above dark, bruised shadows. Beyond the curtain, a scream slides into a long drawn-out rattling hiss and comes to a stop. The screaming man had died.
            The doctor pulls aside the curtain, and surveys the room which is both hospital and morgue. He gazes upon a hall of the dead and dying, and those cursed with a long and painful life.

            Takonashi beholds the survivors of Nagasaki.

            The years pass like seven petals, floating through the orchards in the autumn of life; small pink and white fragments of silk-smooth blossoms blown hurriedly about by whimsical winds.

            Kumi sits in a room on a bed which is high off the ground, like a table. Her back is very straight, and her hands rest lightly on her knees, just as in class. The nurse had left the room only a few moments ago, having made sure she had properly exchanged Kumi’s school uniform for the loose colorless smock she now wore.
            Dr. Takonashi enters and favors Kumi with his watery-eye smile, his dark eyes squinting behind thin spectacles, the edges of his mouth turned up just enough to show he is, in fact, smiling.

            “Hello.” He greets her.
            “Good morning Dr. Takonashi.” Kumi chirps, giving a head nod with some shoulder action in lieu of a bow, due to the fact she is sitting, which the doctor returns.

            “What is your name, my dear?” The doctor asks.

            “Watanase Kumiko.” The girl replies.

            Their eyes lock. Not staring but…resting on each other. She is first to break the contact, looking away, letting his eyes roam carefully over her, her aside-glance straying back on occasion into his slow-blinking, constant eyes. Her legs and bare knees are slung over the table and dangle above the floor.

            “Kumiko.” The doctor says. Kumi imagines him tasting the syllables in his mouth. “That is such a pretty name. And how do you feel today?” The doctor inquires.
            At first, Kumi answers with a mechanical shrug, the rise and fall of both shoulders. The overhead light reflected in her eyes changes slightly. Kumi knows she shouldn’t look the doctor in the eyes. Her mother wouldn’t approve if she were here. She also knows the doctor is still looking at her.
            “My mouth hurts.” She says.
            “Ah.” The wrinkle between the doctor’s eyebrows tightens slightly. “Where does it hurt, Kumiko?”
            “The top of my mouth, near the back.” Kumi replies. There is something in her voice, like the look cornered animals have in their eyes.

            “Let’s have a look then, shall we?” He says, turning, and opens a drawer of an old solid-wood counter, the top of which is somewhat scarred and stained. The hand returns with a long, thin piece of wood.
            “Open your mouth, please.” The doctor orders, and Kumi does as she is told, letting her jaw fall downwards, revealing small white teeth and a bright pink tongue. The doctor removes a small flashlight from the pocket of his white lab coat.

            “And please stick out your tongue. Very good, thank you.” He presses the wooden board down slightly on her tongue, the little light dancing on the back of her mouth.
            His eyes never leave her mouth as he calls for the nurse.
            “Yes, Doctor Takonashi?” says the nurse, coming from the other room.
            “There is inflammation in the adenoids. I’m going to have to cut them out. Please bring my implements.” He says. Kumi thinks the way he talks to the nurse is colder than the one he talks to herself.

            “Of course Doctor Takonashi.” The nurse replies and scuttles off. The doctor flicks off the flashlight and replaces it in the pocket of his lab coat, disposing of the tongue depressor and donning a pair of thin rubber gloves.

            When the nurse enters again, she carries a chrome-bright tray with a white cloth, laid out with small, sharp things. The tools on the tray gleam.

            Calmly, the doctor selects a thin scalpel. The nurse comes around behind Kumi and gently presses her into a more reclined position, so Kumi’s back rests lightly against the bed.

            With his left hand, the doctor opens Kumi’s mouth and tilts her chin up and to the left. He is still holding the scalpel, like a pen. Then the scalpel goes in, and Kumi feels something hard against the top of her mouth. She tries not to press her tongue against it, but the taste of metal engulfs her, and she nearly gags.

            Several sharp pains come, and the flavor of steel and plastic is replaced by sickly-sweet copper, and this time she does gag, sitting forward to retch. A torrent of liquid metal comes over her chin and into the pan the nurse had presciently placed there.

            Kumi looks at the pool of her own blood and the small gobs of pinkish meat laying there. The doctor places the scalpel on the tray to be sterilized later. He doesn’t look at Kumi, trying to avoid her eyes. The nurse leaves. Kumi wipes her mouth and tries to speak.

            “Doctor…” Kumi manages, swallowing blood.

            “Yes, Kumiko?” The doctor gives her his full attention now that the nurse is gone.

            “I..you can call me Kumi. It is my secret name.” Her mouth tastes funny, and she’s forced to swallow to speak.

            “Have we…met before?” The doctor asks. Kumi cannot speak, her mouth hurts so much, and she only nods.

            “Nagasaki. At the field hospital, the infirmary. I remember a little girl.” He seems unsure of himself. “She was there with an older woman, a sister or mother.” A stupid tear trickles down her cheek. Kumi meets the doctor’s eyes, and they share a moment of suffering.

            “Kumi.” He says. “Let me give you something for the pain.”

            There is a needle. It seems huge to her. She feels him lay it against her skin, and then the penetration – not so much aware of pain, but the needle is cold, so cold. There is a sense of pressure, as something is forced into her veins with steady, practiced hands. Kumi doesn’t feel much different. The pain is still there, but less urgent. Her throat feels slick. Kumi sees the nurse return.

            “See that she rests well. I have given her something to make her sleep.” Takonashi informs the nurse.
            Dr. Takonashi leaves the room without waiting for the nurse to carry out his orders. Kumi knows he knows she will. He has other patients to see.
            In the waiting room, she hears him call.

            “Who is next?”

            Autumn turns to winter, and the peach blossom trees are bare. Yet even in the most barren times, something may grow. Seven shoots break through the snow, and turn newborn flowers to pale spring light.

            Takonashi stared at his belongings. How many years had he stayed at this school? Yet there had been hardly anything of value to pack for their trip. He wrapped a few clothes of no great value around his faded lab coat. The bundle of diplomas, military papers, and a copy of his letter of resignation to the principal he placed in a large manila envelope. From his small shelf he selected a small hardbound book by Lafcadio Hearn, the only gift he’d received in ten years, and an English medical dictionary with his life savings tucked into the cover. The bottle of sake he had saved for them to share he took down from his hiding place. Everything he cared to own fit well enough into his small, bamboo frame suitcase. He’d bought her one just like it.
            Of course, he was also bringing his medical bag. He could hardly elope without the tools of his livelihood. All the medicines, needles and knives he would need in an emergency, or to set himself up in a small village. Sitting at the bottom lays a clear glass bottle, a pale and unreadable label on one side, with a steel cap. It is about half full.
            Next to the bottle was the small kit containing his works: the syringe, with replacement needles, and a length of coiled rubber tubing. The vein at Takonashi’s temple pulses a little. He listens to his heart throb, and feels the steady beat at the great arteries on the back of his neck, and his throat…and down to rest on the bandage over the inside of his arm.
            A knock sounds politely on the door, distracting the doctor as he kneels down to reach for his bag.
            The room was still, sunlight shining through an open window covered by a screen. All was quiet. The person at the door knocks again. “Takonashi-kun?”
At the sound of his name, Takonashi removes himself from his awkward position and opens the door. “Yes?”
            Kumi stands there, smiling at him. The light of the window flashes over her flawless skin for a moment, and her dark hair frames face. She laughs and falls into his arms. His callused hands caress taut, young skin.

            “Are you packed yet?” She whispers into his ear.

            “Yes my darling.” Takonashi says as he grips her tighter, and pulls her through the door.
            While she takes off her shoes, Takonashi takes her suitcase and places it next to his own. Together, the lovers enter the adjoining tea room and lower themselves onto the lightly padded pillows in front of the low table.

            “When do we leave?” Kumi asks.

            “We have a few hours before it is time to catch the train to Tokyo.” Takonashi replies.

            “Then we can be married…” he says Kumi as she settles against him and nuzzles his head.

            “Yes.” Kumi says “But we have some time before that. Time enough…”

            Kumi twists to rest her arms on his shoulders, her forehead resting against Takonashi’s own, and the lovers stare into each other’s eyes. Her smile becomes less innocent, more seductive. He returned her smile with his own. Sometimes he had trouble keeping up with her youthful energy, but somehow he matched fire and enthusiasm she showed in their love games.

            Suddenly, Takonashi became more aware of the throb in his temples; the bandage over the wound in his elbow was loose and was coming off in his sleeve. He kept the arm still as his left hand scratched the hairs on the back of her neck.

            In throaty whispers, Kumi murmurs endearments to him. The slight sheen on her skin, the sleepless teenage eyes, and the conspiratorial tone creeping into Kumi’s voice arouse him. At the same time, they look into each other’s eyes and see recognition there—she has become like him. Takonashi feels the bandage slip almost onto his wrist.

Something trickles from the wound. They kiss.

            At this, Kumi grabs his arm at the elbow and squeezes with unknowing strength. Takonashi gasps through their kiss, and Kumi bites his lip to keep him from calling out. At last they break apart…and he sees her impish grin. There is always a little pain to heighten the pleasure. They have both come so far since they met. The thrill of taboo settled on them in the beginning, but now…now they just feel the same need.

            All Takonashi feels is his desire. His—no—their addiction.

            “I want you to do it to me.” She whispers in his ear. “I need a taste before we go.”

            With a nod leaves the room, and returns with his medical bag. Kumi reaches in his bag for the needle, the tube, and the small steel-capped bottle. She is as eager, as willing as the first time.

            There is enough in there for them both.

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