[Cry]

She’d finally fallen asleep. After he’d said the wrong sentence, the wrong word, the wrong anything, he didn’t know, it started up. That beautiful face, with its upturned nose and ruby red lips, spikey black eyelashes and enormous dark eyes, contorted. It twisted, scrunching, squinting, clenching into a dam that wasn’t strong enough. One tear leaked out from the inside corner of her right eye, then another. Soon, a wail grew in her throat, so high-pitched that he almost didn’t hear it when her mouth opened wide and released it.
“Shh,” he tried. He reached over to brush the strands of long dark hair that had begun to stick to her cheeks and the creases of her mouth away.
She took two breaths, and he thought he might get lucky here. Maybe it was just a fluke and he’d get off easy. But after she’d released the air, she let out another of those dog-whistle noises and buried her head in her pillow.
His second attempt involved apologizing. Profusely. But her body shook harder, each gasp squeezing her whole lungs. As his hand hovered over her back, trembling with her same voracity, he considered asking her to stop. He’d throw a please in there, of course–he wasn’t a jerk. But he didn’t know what else to do. And God, should such a being exist, knew he wasn’t good at these sorts of things.
In rapid succession, he also thought about offering her more of the white chocolate ganache bittersweet chocolate cheesecake he’d made. She’d smiled with each slow bite, slipping the creamy filling off her fork. Something about her eating his food. . .He knew that’d make him feel better, at least.
While he thought of what to do, he continued to stroke her hair back, tucking those silky black strands behind her ear and brushing his rough fighter’s fingers against her temple. Wracking his brain, his forehead crinkled, ears turning pink with the strain. He hated the not knowing. The way that these spells hit his brain like a jackhammer, shaking loose all answers; breaking them apart to make way for more and more questions.
What happened?
Why?
Where’d he go wrong?
How could he fix it?
He needed to fix it like he needed to seal engine blocks or pop this sucka. Like he needed to stock Cap’n Crunch in a backroom with just a box cutter and a tinny radio for company, or touch up the flames on his tight ’63 Nova. To immortalize her passion on his back while he read books on how the dance got started.
She reached up, arms outstretched for the hug he’d give her. Her hands tied over his inked ballet slippers. His kept touching her temples and ears, still shaking to keep from pressing too hard.
By the time he came up with a game plan, she’d quieted down to a few staggered hiccups.
Against his better judgment, he used the nearness to whisper another ‘Sorry’ and a sincere ‘I love you.’
He winced at her gasp. This time she wedged her face into his chest, making his shirt wet and cold with her sobs.
You real smart, Polk, he thought. A fuckin’ genius.
He kept his mug shut after that–not even risking a loud breath. He didn’t want to know how long this could go on if he kept messing everything. He thought about fairy tales, and rivers of tears. The kinds of things she’d step and curve and leap to. Things he’d never known could be so cool or wonderful or beautiful. He never thought he could sit and watch a girl dance without her body waving, booty shaking. Or think it was incredible.
He couldn’t move nearly so well, but he could pay her talents back with food. Lemon basil caprese paninis and tomato melon prosciutto salads. As if she could feel the warmth from his thought of it, she quieted back down to just sniffs and multi-breathed sighs. And when he laid her down, despite wanting to keep her in the ring of forked black words and muscles, she curled up tight.
A deep breath. Once. Twice. Her eyelids fluttered, and he knew she’d put herself down for the night. He tugged her furry blanket from the end of the bed and draped it over her.
In the space between her and the edge, he made a room for himself to be there. To curl up, too, and wait for the sun.