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Sliver in my Heart By Kyrie Hobson This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters in this story and any actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This story is copyright 2010 by Kyrie Hobson. Permission is hereby given to share this story on the World Wide Web, provided that (a) no charge of any kind, including, but not limited to, subscription fees, is made in connection with access to the story, (b) the story is reprinted in its entirety, including this notice, and (c) proper credit is given to the author at the time of posting. All other rights, including, but not limited to, those of adaptation to other media and formats, reserved to the author. Contact: [email protected] ******************************************* There's a line in Bob Seger's "Against the Wind" that goes "Janie was lovely, she was the queen of my nights." Yeah, that was how I felt. I met Janie shortly after college, and would do anything for her. I took a job as a crew accountant for a geophysical services company because she wanted a house with a big yard, and most entry level accounting work didn't pay well enough for that. The work wasn't very hard-- mostly getting approvals for off-budget expenditures and bookwork, and it was less dangerous than the generous hazard pay would lead you to believe, but it kept me on-site for two to six weeks at a time. Some nights, alone in my hotel room, I had to remind myself that it was all for Janie, so we could have a nice house where we could raise good, healthy children. Janie didn't seem to mind. Just fifteen months after our meeting, we were married in a large ceremony at a nondenominational chapel downtown. We honeymooned in Cozumel, happily balancing lovemaking in our hotel room with afternoons sipping margaritas in the languid Yucatan sun. Getting the house was easier than it probably should have been. My family owned a small but successful fittings business that held interest in a few local housing developments?my mom convinced my dad to diversify the family investments as a hedge against another oil bust like the one that crippled Texas in the Eighties. Anyway, I was able to convince my folks to float us a mortgage on very easy terms. Still, Janie had trouble managing our expenses. I opened a few savings accounts in my name only and hid them, just so we'd be able to pay off her staggering credit card bills. Even with my impressive salary we were sinking fast--fast enough that the collection companies were calling before our first anniversary. I'd had enough. Her overdraft and non-payment fees alone nearly emptied the main emergency account, and the other was money I was setting aside for any children we might have, safe in restricted-access funds that we couldn't touch until they matured. Bristling with disapproval, my father loaned us enough to clear the worst of our troubles, with the strict understanding that we would be paying him back, and that our spending would be curtailed from then on out. I cut up Janie's credit cards, knowing that my father would use his connections to limit her access to any other spending, and went back to work. It was sheer luck that I came home early that week. One of the geophone handlers had a family thing in the area, and swapped tickets with me so he could get a later flight. When I turned on my street, I passed a smallish moving van; it seemed odd, since all of the homes there were new and newly occupied. It should have been a red flag, but I was still surprised when I walked into my house, and found it half- empty, and Janie walking to the door carrying her bags. "Oh," she said. "Hank." "What's going on?" I asked. "Where are you going?" "I'm leaving you, Hank." "What, why?" She treated me to a frank stare that insinuated that if I didn't already know, I was even dumber than her low expectations had led her to believe. "It's over, Hank. It has been for a while." I was dumbfounded. As far as I was concerned this all came out of left field. Sure, she had stopped answering the letters I sent her every day, but I assumed that just meant she didn't have any news to tell?she had never been as avid about letter-writing as I had been. "What do you mean it's over? Couldn't we at least try counseling?" A horn honked, outside. "I can't stay. John's waiting." John was my best friend. We'd been roommates in college. "John Stevens?" "Yes. He's taking me away to somewhere...where I'm appreciated." I just stood there as she walked around me and out the door. My best friend and my wife? It was like some bad television drama. I searched my mind for any signs that I may have missed. John was always polite to Janie, but I never got the impression that anything might be going on. If anything, I always thought he disliked her a bit. I felt humiliated...duped...there were no words to describe how I felt?a thousand were close, but none of them were exactly right. I don't know how long I stood there, on the verge of crying, letting the odd, shameful feeling build. I just know that in the end, I let out a long, painful, howling moan, as loud as a scream, filled with all of my rage, horror, and frustration. Then I collapsed. I was off for nearly a month between crew assignments, and it passed in a haze. I was not surprised to find that she had emptied our checking account, although she'd somehow acquired a credit card and maxxed it out. Luckily, I received a bonus at the end of the first week off, and was able to pay off the new card and close the account while still having enough to live on. There were a lot of ramen and biscuit meals in my future, but I'd make it. I was served with divorce papers by the second week, and signed them numbly. They were a preliminary separation agreement for a no-fault divorce that essentially said anything each of us had on the final day was what we got. I quickly went downhill from there. In a few weeks, I'd gone from what I'd thought was a more-or-less happy marriage to being divorced, bereft, and alone, betrayed by the two people I'd thought I could trust forever. I sank into a depression. For a week, I didn't bathe, I didn't shave; the closest I came to industry was connecting my laptop to the internet so I could watch NCIS reruns on HULU. I laughed bitterly when Kate got shot at the end of season two. Picturing Janie there instead of Sasha Alexander, I said out loud, "Didn't see that coming did you, bitch? Now you know how I feel." It was a bizarre moment. Until then, I'd been thinking what a horrible person I must be to make my two dearest turn on me, but with that sentence, a realization began to dawn on me, and even though the depression tried to drag me back down into the depths, I hung onto that thought until it developed into a full epiphany. Janie had been using me! Not just lately, either. She had been using me the entire time we'd known each other. I scoured my memory and realized that there had not been a single moment when she had not been more interested in what she could get from me than in what I could give her. But what of John? He'd never been anything but a friend to me in the past, never asked anything of me. He was probably just her next victim. But still, he had helped her in the end. He had taken my joy, illusory as it was, and crushed it in his betrayal. I rubbed my face and felt the scrubby growth of three weeks of apathy. I went to the bathroom, and saw the ghost of myself in the mirror. I'd lost about twenty pounds, and with the scraggly new beard I looked more like a squatter than an accountant. Worse, I looked like a corpse, the sad remains of a man betrayed and left for dead in the mountains. An anger began to build in me, a hatred so dark that my relatively sheltered childhood gave me no basis for understanding it. They could not get away with this! They would pay, both of them would get what they deserved. That's when I first heard the music. It was discordant and barely audible, steamy with the guttural chords of a calliope. I wanted to follow it and find it, but I knew I couldn't leave the house looking as I did. I quickly showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth. When I'd put on some fresh clothes I stood in place for a moment and listened. The music was still there, still calling me. I grabbed my keys and paused just outside my door, trying to sense some direction. Working it out, I jumped into my car and drove for some time, farther than the music should have been able to reach, until I found myself in the parking lot of an old strip mall, listening to the jangling, atonal strains of a small gypsy carnival. No one was there but me and the carnies, but it was early afternoon, so I wasn't surprised. I gave the surly dropout at the gate a few dollars for admission and he gave me a string of five tickets good for the rides. I noticed that the rides cost ten tickets minimum, but I wasn't here for the rides. I was looking for something else. I found it at the far end of the short midway: a small camping trailer with a large sign that said, "Madam Egeskov. Seer. Sorceress." The sign featured a hook-nosed Baba Yaga glaring over a frightening cliff-top castle. I knocked at the door of the trailer. "Come in, Mr. Shaw," said a voice, soft, but so menacing in its power that my guts turned to water, and I almost bolted. "Come in," the voice said again, but now it was more a command and less an invitation. I turned the handle and walked in. An old woman was sitting at the camper's table playing solitaire. She was dressed in the sort of stretch polyester that had been popular with middle-agers in the seventies: a sherbet-orange sleeveless tee and a lime-sorbet pair of stretch pants. Her grey hair was bound in rollers beneath a diaphanous scarf. If she was less physically imposing than the hag on her sign, she had a presence that made the difference and more. Standing in the camper with her, I felt like I was locked in a cage with a great serpent, unforgiving, pitiless, and hungry. Without looking up, she said, "We have business, you and I." She motioned to the seat opposite her. "Sit." I sat. She played a red three from her hand onto a black four on the board. "You wish to avenge yourself on those who wronged you." She played a few cards in silence, as if waiting for a denial she knew wouldn't come. "As it happens, our desires coincide, somewhat." I tilted my head queryingly. "This woman, this 'Janie' as she calls herself, some time ago she led my grandson down the primrose path. You met him at the entrance. He is a fool, and easily led, but still, such a crime against my family cannot go unpunished. More importantly, she stole from me. Trinkets, baubles. Useless to most people, but quite powerful to those who know how to use them. You felt the power of one of them, yourself, didn't you?" She chuckled softly. "Yes, had your anger not freed you, you still would have been her thrall sitting alone in desperate longing until she returned." I remembered the fight I'd had to hold onto the nugget of realization that had led to my epiphany. She moved a row of cards onto a red king. "If you agree to my terms, I will avenge us both on the ---------." She said something in a language I didn't understand, something vile filled with hatred and bitterness. "I will also enable you to see that your former friend gets what he deserves." I finally found my tongue. "Your terms?" "Nothing is free, Mr. Shaw, especially not vengeance. I will take something from you, and in return, I will give you something, and from the trade, we will both be able to achieve our ends." She played a ten-row to a jack, exposing a queen, and played the jack back to the exposed card. "Do you agree?" I watched as she continued playing. What did she mean? How was this all going to help me? Was she talking about magic? Had I been ensorcelled by Janie, somehow? It seemed insane. Quietly, so quietly I barely heard it myself, I said, "Yes, I agree to your terms." As I did, she played the last card from her hand up to the till. Four kings lay at the top of neat piles, the lesser cards of their suits below them. She looked up at me. Her eyes were yellow, and slitted, like a snake's. "Come around to my side, then. I must whisper." I did as she asked and leaned in close to her. "This will hurt," she whispered in my ear. Before I knew what she was doing, she had taken a hidden dagger and stabbed me deep in the heart. I was dying. I had to be. Nothing else could hurt like this. She withdrew the knife and pushed me back. I fell to my knees. My bewildered eyes fell on the dagger, and I saw that a tiny sliver had broken from the tip. Suddenly, my whole body was racked with pain as something was torn from within me, something essentially spiritual, but with physical manifestation. It felt as if my body was exploding and contracting, as if each cell was being impaled and immolated. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I simply endured agony for a brief eternity. When it ended, I was on my knees on the floor of the trailer. I was alive, but something was different. Many things were different. I instinctively felt my chest where the dagger had entered and encountered...breasts. I looked up at the old woman for explanation. She was already deep in another game of solitaire. A small bottle sat on the table near her spread, filled with a bluish smoke that swirled and seemed vaguely familiar. "Humans are both male and female in essence. The degree of balance determines the complexion of a person's soul, if not always their body. I have taken some of the maleness from you; I will need it to achieve our mutual vengeance on the would-be siren. "I'm afraid I had to take rather a lot. She doesn't know it, but one of the baubles she stole makes her particularly helpless in the face of overwhelming masculinity. You are now much more a woman than you ever were a man. The spell I used transformed your body as well, since the dysphoria you would otherwise experience would have made you useless. Magic is subtle that way; it brooks no anomalies that might expose it to the uninitiated." "Why did you stab me?" "That was my gift to you, in return. There is a sliver of the cold dagger in your heart, and that will allow you your vengeance against the young man. As long as it is there, it takes away all of your emotion. You will feel no joy, no pity, no sadness. It can only be removed by rejoining it with its parent dagger. It can, however, be melted." "Melted?" "Yes, but the less said about that, the better. You must leave now, Miss Shaw. We will not meet again. Don't forget your purse." She gestured toward a fashionable but tasteful bag sitting next to the chair I had occupied. I picked it up and left. Outside, I examined my feelings. She was right about the sliver. I was no longer depressed,, or even sad. Nor was I angry. I didn't even feel any of the stew of emotions that should have assailed me over my sudden change of sex. I was even-tempered and...nothing. I then dug through "my" purse. If this was a side-effect of the subtlety of magic, then magic was more powerful than anything physics could define. I had a full wallet with a driver's license that identified me as Bailey Shaw, two years younger than I had been when I was Hank. My insurance card and the work ID that hung from my lanyard showed that I was the assistant controller at my family's fittings company. I found that if I thought about it, I could remember events from the past (events that never happened previously, since I never had a sister?or any siblings?when I was Hank). Satisfied, and curiously accepting of the new situation, I put everything back, slung the purse onto my shoulder, and drove home. I was hoping that the house would have been magically cleaned and refilled with furniture, just as my car had somehow changed from a grey Corolla to a lemon-yellow Miata, but a quick scan of my memory explained why that wasn't the case. My Corolla had been found abandoned a few blocks away from the carnival site. There was a little blood on the driver's side?not enough to have killed me, but enough to make Janie a person of interest in my disappearance. Daddy had immediately foreclosed on the house and the signature loan, in order to prevent Janie from claiming my property. Since the divorce wasn't quite final, that was a possibility. It would take a while to go through the courts, and, until it finally cleared, I volunteered to stay at the house and take care of the house and everything inside. I could not believe anyone could live like this. The floor hadn't been swept in weeks, and I doubted it had been mopped since the builders left. The carpeted floors, upstairs, were in just as bad a shape, and even a cursory glance at the shelves and spaces revealed that none of them had ever seen a dust rag. Had I been able, I probably would have been afraid of what I would find in the kitchen and the bathrooms. I bent to the job of cleaning with a will. The activity of cleaning afforded me time and clarity to think. For one thing, I wondered just how long I'd been in that trailer. It had only felt like a few hours, but the evidence of my memory suggested that it had been much longer. Certainly, more than a few hours had passed since I'd left the house in search of the strange music. The circumstances surrounding my disappearance also seemed strange. The abandoned car with just enough blood to raise suspicions seemed less like any "subtlety of magic" and more like Madam Egeskov establishing some sort of premise for her vengeance. I wondered how much else she had manipulated toward her own ends. I was vacuuming the master bedroom, now, and I caught movement in the full-length mirror that Janie used to spend hours examining herself in before we went out. I was fascinated by the figure staring out at me, so strange, yet so familiar. The features were similar to mine, but softer and smaller. There were other differences, too. My hair had been a deep walnut brown; Bailey's was auburn with gold highlights. My eyes were still green, and I still had my father's straight nose, although now it had a puckish uplift. My lips were full, with a double curve that fell into a naturally inviting smile; before, it had been a horizontal line between thin, hard lips. Of course, the biggest change was my body. My father's mix of Welsh and Polish blood still translated into broad shoulders, but, now that accented my mother's delicate frame. Had I been taller, I would have made a good model?clothes wanted to hang off me in that perfect way, but I was only about five feet three inches, now. My C-cup breasts looked much larger on that tiny frame than they otherwise would have, but not monstrously so. I combed my wavy locks out of my eyes with my hand, and went back to work. As I washed the dishes that had been piled up in the sink, I realized that Madame Egeskov had lied about one thing, or at least been wrong. The sliver didn't prevent me from feeling any emotions; it simply gave me a distance from them so they didn't cloud my judgment. I certainly felt a deep satisfaction in the act of cleaning, and I'd been pleased with my look after straightening my hair upstairs. Hours later, exhausted from my efforts, I lay down on the sofa in the living room, and fell asleep. Three problems struck me in rapid succession as I woke in the early morning gloaming. First, and most immediate, I realized that I'd slept in my clothes the night before. That, in itself wouldn't have been a problem, except that my bra had shifted, causing a discomfort that bordered on pain. Using my thumbs and artful shifts of my body, I managed to straighten out the offending garment, and resolved not to sleep in my bra in the future. That led me to problem two. What future was there? Would I be turning back into myself at some time, or was I stuck like this? Madame Egeskov had said that she'd "taken" my masculine spirit; did that mean I wouldn't be getting it back? Would I be spending the rest of my life as a little sister I never had? I had the feeling that was the way it was going to be; she had also said we wouldn't meet again. I wasn't pleased with the information, but the sliver at least kept me from drowning in overwhelming despair. Anyway, beyond an intellectual sense, I didn't really miss being a man. I had liked being a man when that was what I was, but now...I felt like a woman, and I really couldn't imagine being any other way. If I was to remain Bailey, and I held a growing certainty that I would, at least it wouldn't be a prison of misaligned gender. I even looked forward to wearing dresses (I was currently wearing the jeans and oxford I'd worn to the carnival?although these were a more feminine cut). And there the third problem popped up. I'd forgotten to bring my luggage in when I pulled into the drive yesterday afternoon. It wasn't really a problem, it was an oversight that was easily fixed by going out to my car and retrieving the suitcase from the trunk and the hang- up bag from the passenger-side hanger hook. Okay, it was a problem because my dresses didn't have a chance to relax over night, so I'd need to steam one of them before going to work, since Daddy insisted that office personnel maintain a professional appearance at all times. Bringing in my bags, I quickly selected a little pink tank dress that was more suited to a party or a night clubbing than it was the office, but I had a nice, black cutaway jacket that brought it up to standard. A pair of hose and my lucky black pumps and I had what I needed. I hung the dress in the bathroom while I took a shower, hoping that the steam would relax it enough to lose the worse wrinkles, and was surprised to find it smooth and ready to wear. I brushed my teeth in my underwear, dried my hair, finished dressing and was on my way. As I drove to work, I considered my options for avenging myself on John. Despite idle fantasies of murder and other bloody consequences, I realized, that I really just wanted to let him know how I'd felt. I resolved to seduce him then toss him aside, letting him feel the pain of being betrayed by the one he loved. The factory was in a semi-industrial section of town that had been the outskirts when it had first been built, but had since become surrounded by office parks and middle-income subdivisions. We leased the second floor of a small office building a few blocks away for all of our administrative work. Between the factory and the office, the company had about 200 employees, most of whom worked on the factory floor creating the custom connectors, junctions and caps our company made for various clients in the oil, gas, and water-extraction industries. As Assistant Controller, my job was less supervisory than it sounds. I oversaw and verified the operations accounting, so the Controller was free to focus on the financial side of the business. I know it seems like all accounting should be considered "financial" but, really, that's not the case, and there are very good reasons for keeping operations accounts separate from the financial ones. You'd have to be an accountant to understand why this is the case. It all wasn't much different than what I'd been doing as Hank. I was one rung higher up the ladder, is all. Most of the clerks, managers and accountants I needed to deal with were in the Factory building, so I often spent as much time there as in my office, especially at quarter close. Filing quarterly reports is only legally required of public stock companies, not family-owned corporations, like ours, but we had a few investors that preferred that we go ahead and file them. When my computer booted up, the first thing it did was make a ding noise and pop up a reminder that I needed to talk to the process manager in the small fittings department. I slipped on a pair of sneakers I kept in my office for trips to the factory (my pumps, while stylish, were suitable for neither the factory floor nor the walk over there). The company had a golf cart for making the trip between the office and the factory, but on nice days like today, I preferred the walk. I collected my paperwork, checked out with the receptionist, and went on my way. I was stopped short when I entered the management office door of the factory building. John was standing behind the reception counter. I'd completely forgotten that he worked at my parents' company. He'd started out doing summer work with me to save up for his tuition and expenses at school. After college, when he discovered that his English Comp degree was good for exactly nothing, he signed on full time, and quickly rose through the ranks to become a section manager. He'd taken some night school classes in business, which helped, but he'd also earned his place through hard work. The workers liked him, and he usually managed to get better production from his crews than any of the other managers. He looked up as I came in. "Oh, hey Bailey," he said, in a friendly tone. It occurred to me that, in this new form, I'd had a crush on him since the first time Hank had brought him home from college. Of course, he was pretty easy on the eyes. He stood a little over six feet tall with broad shoulders and sandy blond hair that he kept just short enough to control his natural wave. He had blue eyes, and a fit, athletic body that was hard in all the right places. I reminded myself that he had destroyed my life, and I had to ensure he got what he deserved. "John," I answered, coolly. "How's Janie?" He stared at me blankly for a moment. "How would I know?" I got the feeling that he was really confused by the question. Had she used him as she had me? I decided I didn't care. I glared at him for a moment to ensure he knew I was on to him, and continued to my meeting. The meeting took all morning. Suresh, the manager, was new in his job and wasn't yet fully aware of the difference between an off-budget item and a petty cash item. Ultimately, we had to compare his entire log to his invoices and payment stubs before we had his entries made properly. This may sound silly and foolishly detailed, but since the Enron scandal and the Sarbanes-Oxley law that followed it, company audits are more about ensuring that the company obeys its own policies and procedures than they are about the financial health of the company. I left for lunch, secure in the knowledge that Suresh would forget everything we'd just gone over, and I'd have to repeat the process again next week. I spent the afternoon in my office working on bank reconciliations. This took longer than I expected, and I ended up working late. Frank, the building security guard walked me out to my car. He was a nice enough man, not unattractive, and we made small talk as we passed through the parking garage. He helped me into my car then stood by as I started it and watched me pull out. The rest of the week went pretty much the same way. Mornings at the factory, then afternoons at the office, then home late. I bought groceries on the way home the first night; it was shocking how empty my house was of even the most basic staple. On Friday, Clarice and Sherri, our two accounts clerks, invited me out to a bar with them. Sherri had a crush on the drummer of the band that played there Fridays. It was a pretty generic bar. The door was near the left-hand wall and led almost directly into the service area. The large area to the right?where it wasn't filled with tables?was dominated by a small stage. We sat at a table near the back, taking the seats that faced the stage without too much contortion. Behind us, a pair of machinists played shuffleboard and talked the sort of friendly trash men do when competing. I noticed that about half of the people here were employees of the company or worked in the office building. Clarice got us drinks. I ordered a Mojito because I knew it was something I could sip and nurse for a while. I was worried that I might get too drunk. I'd never been a binge drinker, but I knew that women don't have men's tolerance for alcohol, and I was a lot lighter now, anyway. We sat over our drinks and discussed the odd but inevitable politicking and romanticizing that occurred in a small company. When the manager introduced the band, Clarice and Sherri moved their chairs to the front but left their purses with me. A fresh drink appeared in front of me that I assumed one of the girls had ordered to keep me in place. The band was okay. They mostly did covers of 90's alternative music, and the lead singer's voice was flexible enough that, even if he didn't have the presence to pull off any personal touches, he reproduced the sound and feel of the originals well enough to be enjoyable. The table felt very smooth, like polished water. Frank appeared in the seat next to me. He was saying something, but I couldn't hear him over the music, and, honestly, I wasn't really listening, anyway. I couldn't get over how great this second Mojito tasted. I mean the first one had been okay, but this one...the way the mint blended with the rum and the lime. Before I realized, I was done with it. Frank's hand was on my thigh, and he was leaning in close, nuzzling my ear. When my new drink came, he moved it closer to me which was nice because I really liked that drink. I wasn't sure about him, though. I didn't think I wanted anyone touching me like this, certainly not him. But it felt so good. Every stroke of his fingers was electric; every caress of his lips on my ear was a shock that drove through my core. Then he was gone. I looked up and saw John had him against the wall. The music had stopped, which sucked, because I was getting to like the way the lead guitar rode around the bass in playful waves like a dolphin. John was yelling something that made no sense: "youbastardwhatdidyouputinherdrink dontlietomeisawyouwasitthesehowmanyhowmanyyouworthlessfuckgoddammit" my hair was silky and sensuous and when I moved my head it rubbed against my neck like kittens looking for a snuggle. Clarice was very close to me offering me something "drinkthewatersweetieyouneedtogethydrated yourerunningafeveryourdrinkwasspikedandyouneedtogetsomewaterintoyoucome onbailey." My dress felt nice. It was a stretch cotton with cup sleeves that fell to just above the knee. It was one of those kicky little things that was suitable for a casual night out or the office with minimal accessorizing. It felt like making love. It felt like making love with an extremely light and fluffy chocolate mousse. There were people all around me now and they were all talking at once and shining lights at my face. They poked me in the arm and made me lie down and we were moving. I suppose I should be thankful for memory suppression. I can't imagine the rest of my evening was very much fun. I awoke in the early hours of the morning with an IV in my arm, staring into the harsh brightness of a hospital room. A stranger in a lab coat was looking at a clipboard at the foot of the bed. He noticed I was awake and called the nurse. She helped me drink juice from a box then stood by to assist. "How do you feel?" he asked. I felt a little ill, and told him so. The juice had helped, but my throat felt raw, and my stomach felt like I'd been vomiting for hours. "We had to pump your stomach," he explained. "The man who drugged you gave you enough Ecstasy for three people your size. You're lucky to be alive." He examined me in relative silence. Tapping here and listening there, asking pointed questions when necessary. "Your parents are here," he said as he finished and prepared to leave. "I can send them in if you'd like." A tall woman with chocolate brown hair stopped him. "We need to ask Miss Shaw a few questions, first. That is, if you feel up to it?" I agreed, and she crossed to my bed, followed by a somewhat younger black man. She was dressed stylishly but practically; he was wearing an inexpensive off-the-rack suit from a low-end department store. She sat down in the chair beside me, and they asked what I guessed were the usual questions. Did I know I was being drugged? Did I take the drugs voluntarily? Why did I take the drugs? Was I aware that I was taking drugs? Did I know the man who provided the drugs to me? I answered as well as I could, considering I'd had no idea that my drinks had been spiked. I identified Frank, not exactly as the person who gave me drugs but because he'd been close when things started getting wrong. The officers exchanged an inscrutable look. "You're a very lucky young woman," one of the cops said, "lucky to be alive, lucky not to have been raped. It was a good thing your boyfriend showed up when he did and saw what was going on/" "I don't have a boyfriend." "Really? There's a young man waiting for you out in the hall. He seems very devoted to you, and, according to all of the witnesses, he noticed what was happening and came to your rescue." "Oh." "I understand you're still shaken from your experience," she said, handing me a business card. "If you remember anything else, give me a call." She and her partner started to leave, but she couldn't resist stopping at the door. "And don't accept any more drinks unless you know where they come from." I nodded agreement, and she left. Shortly after they left, my parents entered, followed by John. "Bailey Elisabeth Shaw," my mother blurted out as they entered. "We were so worried! What am I to do with you? Drinking in a bar? And taking Drugs?" "She wasn't taking drugs, Margaret," Daddy corrected, "She was drugged. There's a difference." He shot me a look that said that the difference was whether I was stupidly stupid or just stupidly trusting. John made an apologetic shrug over Daddy's shoulder. I took a deep breath. When I was Hank, my parents were less familiar, and allowed me more freedom. Even the deep financial trouble my relationship with Janie had gotten me into was treated with a heavy sigh and a reluctant attempt to get me out. As Bailey, I was treated to an entirely different view. My parents fretted and worried, and lectured their miracle daughter when they couldn't protect me from the world. Hank had been a surprise. Mother had sustained injuries in a car wreck that had ended a previous pregnancy and made childbirth a dangerous and questionable option for her. After I'd been born...after he'd been born...mother had been told she should not expect any more children. The gates of heaven, as she might say, were closed. In the world before I met Madame Egeskov, that had been the end of it, but, in this one, Mother and Daddy had been surprised to learn a year later that they were going to have a little girl. After the doctor returned and announced me fit to go home (but not to drive) a heated discussion ensued as to how I would be getting there, and how I would get my car. Daddy and John finally decided between them that John would drive me home then he and daddy would retrieve my car from the bar sometime that afternoon, after we'd all had a chance to rest. My desire to be taken to my car and Mother's suggestion that I be taken to my parents' house were both met with rolled eyes and unblinking denial. Both of us were still arguing our individual cases as daddy wheeled me out to the Passenger side of John's truck. John drove me home in relative silence. At first he made apologetic noises about getting my parents involved, but, after I waved them off, he sank into a relieved quiet. When we pulled up in front of the house, he quickly ran around to help me out and walk me to the door. I fished my keys out of my purse, and unlocked the door. I turned to say goodbye to John... And I leapt into his arms and kissed him. To this day, I'm not entirely sure why I did it. At the time, I told myself that it was part of my plan to draw him into a relationship and break his heart, but, even now, I have my doubts. It doesn't matter. After a brief moment of surprise, he reached up and peeled me off of him, setting me gently on the ground. "Bailey, I can't," he said. "What would Hank say?" "Who cares? Hank's not here," I half-lied. "I don't think...look, you're my best friend's little sister." The sting of his rejection and some weird sense of urgency made me blurt out, "You didn't seem to mind banging his wife." "What?" He was genuinely shocked. "You heard me." "How dare you even suggest..." he looked angry enough to hit me, but he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and calmed himself down. "Listen, you're probably still a little stoned, and I'm very tired, so I don't want either of us to say something we'll both regret. I don't know what you think you know, but you're wrong. I'm going to go home, now, and I'm going to forget this ever happened." He turned on his heel and walked back out to his truck. I stood, mutely stunned and watched him start it up and drive away. He turned a corner out of sight, and I sagged. Could I have been wrong? Janie had made it very clear that she was leaving with John, but John hadn't acted as if he'd done anything wrong. I'd confronted him twice now, and both times, he seemed surprised?and a little disgusted?that I'd even suggested he had any association with Janie. I determined to watch him more closely. That would be the trick. Eventually, he'd say something or do something that would betray him. Then I could move forward with the confidence that he deserved everything he got. I went inside and changed out of last night's dress into something more suitable for staying at home. I had intended to clean up the unpacked boxes in one of the spare bedrooms (the children's bedrooms, the ghost of my old self reminded, the children I would never have, now), but between the previous night's ordeal and this morning's confusion, I just didn't have the energy. I put on some pajama bottoms and a comfortable t-shirt, nuked a bag of popcorn, and sat down in the living room. TLC was running a marathon of Say Yes to the Dress, and I was quickly enthralled. Daddy came by with John at about noon to drop off my car and check up on me. John waited in his truck. Daddy remarked that John was the most loyal friend he'd ever seen, probably even more loyal than Hank deserved. I asked him why he said that, and Daddy pointed out that John had taken it upon himself to protect my little sister even after I'd disappeared without a word to anyone. Daddy clearly thought that my mysterious disappearance was the result of some selfish thing I'd done (it was, sort of), and that John was the foolishly loyal one. "You know he's smitten with you," he announced. "No, he's not, Daddy. It's what you said. He's just loyal to Hank." "He is," he agreed, "but it's also you. You should give him a chance, little girl. Maybe then you could be trying on dresses instead of watching shows about it." I looked past him at John in the truck. He looked back at me, hurt, but not resentful. A flush of confused pleasure rushed up my spine. I hugged Daddy goodbye and promised I'd call him in the morning. I went back in and watched the marathon until I fell asleep. I awoke to the sound of a lawn mower. I padded to the window and looked out, half hiding behind the curtain. John was in the front yard, pushing his big mower back and forth. The muscles in his arms rippled as he reached the end of each row and turned the mower by tilting it back on its back wheels. John lived in an apartment, but his mother lived in a small house on the north end of town, and John often did errands and handyman jobs for her, including mowing her yard every other week from March to September, when the grass was growing. It occurred to me that he'd probably been doing the same for Janie and me, when I was out on a site. Maybe that was how it happened. She'd looked out the window and seen him effortlessly rolling the huge mower along, a thin glaze coating his exposed skin, making him glisten, a shining example of the modern man at his best. I almost couldn't blame her for what probably happened, afterward. I know I couldn't keep my eyes off of him. I took a quick shower and changed into a nice, casual outfit: faded jeans in a Capri cut that rode low enough to make suggestions without being whorishly blatant and a casual tee with a sweetheart neckline. I brewed some tea as quickly as I could, listening as the mower sounds moved from the front to the back. I filled a pitcher with ice and prepped a tray with glasses, then cursed quietly at the tea for not brewing more quickly. The mower stopped, and I was afraid I'd miss my chance, but then it started again, and I sighed in relief. Finally the tea finished. I poured the hot tea into the pitcher without thinking. As the ice popped, I was worried for a moment that I'd crack the pitcher, but it held, and, picking up the tray, I glided, as quickly as the balanced tray would allow out the back door to the patio. I set the tray down on the deck table and waited for John to finish. He shut off the mower in a far corner, then gazed across his work. As his eyes skated across me, I beckoned him with a glass of tea. He paused, and I'm sure he was thinking about declining, but then he strode across the lawn and accepted the glass. I poured one for myself and gestured for him to sit with me. I offered him a shortbread cookie from the small plate I'd prepared, and he thanked me. "Listen, John," I said. "About yesterday..." "Forget it." "No," I went on, "I was wrong. First I made wholly inappropriate advances then I accused you of...well, you know." "Forget it." "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. It's just that...well, I shouldn't have." "It's okay. Just?just forget it." We sat in silence for a while, drinking our tea. John stood and refilled his glass. His shirt clung to him like a second skin as he drained it in a single gulp. "Do you know," he said, setting the glass back on the tray, "Janie never offered me even a glass of water?" I watched him, quietly. "I don't think she even told Hank I was doing this," he continued. "No," I recalled, "she didn't." He gave me a funny look, and I realized I was speaking from knowledge I probably shouldn't have. "I guess I can understand," he went on. "I started because I happened to have my mower in the truck one day when I was driving by. Hank had asked me to check on her while he was on site. The lawn was bushy, and I realized that Janie had lost the lawn crew somehow?whether she stiffed them or just pissed them off is anyone's guess. So, I just went ahead and cleaned it up. After that, I came by and mowed every other weekend, alternating with doing my mom's lawn. It's not like I have anything else to do on Sunday morning." I looked at him and touched his arm with my fingertips. "You're a good friend, John. I shou?Hank should have appreciated you more." He held my hand. "He's done more for me," he assured me. "And he's okay. Any day now, he'll turn up. I'm sure of it." I smiled wanly up at him, and he smiled confidently back. His eyes were worried, though, as if he didn't believe his own words. "I need to finish," he said, patting my hand before releasing it. He walked off to the mower and pushed it out of the yard. I cleaned up the tray and took it inside. The rest of the summer flowed gently by. Every other week, John would mow the lawn. I would make him tea, and we'd sit outside on the patio talking quietly about this and that. Each time he would hold my hand at the end and assure me that my brother was all right, and, he was sure, would soon be home. My whole body thrilled at his touch, and, each time, I silently thanked the sliver in my heart that the thrill didn't cloud my thinking. I had a plan, now. Flailing about with confrontations and oblique accusations had been foolish, a man's way of settling men's conflicts. I was a woman now, and a woman's vengeance demands patience. I decided I would seduce him, slowly. He was coming to love me as deeply as I had once loved Janie. And when I was sure that he could think of no one else but me, I would betray him completely. I would manufacture evidence of abuse, and maybe rape. I wouldn't leave him. I would destroy him. Frank avoided jail. The attempted rape charge was pretty weak, anyway, and his lawyer was able to plead the drug charge down. He ended up on probation for five years with psychological treatment and a restraining order that said he couldn't come within five hundred feet of me. Of course, Daddy made sure the building owners fired him, but they probably would have done that, anyway. No one wants an accused rapist as a security guard. I found out later that Daddy wanted to fire Clarice and Sherri for "dragging" me to the club. Luckily, Mother convinced him I was free to say no, and that they were both stellar employees who would be hard to replace. He dropped the idea, but he spent the next month being surly to everyone as a result. By August, it was obvious that John wanted a relationship with me. His bumbling attempts to stay close to me while trying not to "soil" his missing best friend's sister were almost endearing. In the end, I started it off by inviting him to come in one Sunday afternoon and watch a video I had rented just for the occasion. John went home to shower and change, saying he wouldn't feel comfortable in his smelly work clothes. I reluctantly agreed, and while he was gone, I showered and changed out of the ratty shorts I'd been wearing to weed the gardens and into a pair of slinky fitted jeans and an off-the-shoulder chiffon blouse (I'd been wearing a backless double-knit halter, before). I was making popcorn when the doorbell rang. I called him in as I poured the popcorn into a bowl and sprinkled it with icing sugar. We hadn't eaten, but that was according to plan. I wanted him hungry. I don't know why, it just seemed that a hungry man was more likely to fall victim to a woman's wiles. I showed him to the sofa and we sat down together. I laid the popcorn bowl in his lap so I could lean against him when I wanted some. Feigning ignorance of the intricacies, I asked him to start the movie, handing him the remote as I did so. It was a romantic comedy starring Vince Vaughn. It's a strange truth that his presence in a movie, even a romantic comedy, makes it not a chick-flick. It was a shallow and predictable movie, but enjoyable, and soon we were both entranced. By the time Vaughn's character realized he was being selfish and oblivious, I was pressed against John with my head on his chest, and his arm had slid around my shoulders. The popcorn bowl emptied, and I asked John to put it on the end table within his reach. I was still looking at him when he turned back. He paused for a moment, studying my face, then bent in and kissed me. And kissed me. We sank into a makeout session that was hot, florid, and demanding. His hands were everywhere: on my hips, along my thighs, up my back, my waste, my breasts, in my hair. His lips were everywhere: on my neck, breathing softly on the edges of my ear, and always, always on my own lips, his tongue invading my mouth. His weight was on me, not fully, but enough, and it was strangely welcome. I was surprised by the desire within me. A man in the throes of passion is filled with a need to take, to hold, to invade. For women, there is a longing, no less demanding, to give, to be held, to be filled. We lay like that for hours, writhing together like impassioned serpents, only our clothes keeping us apart. At one o'clock, I had to go to the bathroom. We had been making out like teenagers for almost six hours, but I was still reluctant to separate. In the bathroom, I removed my bra so John could have full access to my breasts. but it was unnecessary. When I returned, John had straightened his clothes, and was preparing to leave. I walked him to the door and let him kiss me one last time before he went. I could feel the battle raging inside him as he pulled himself away and trudged back to his truck. The right side of my mouth curled up in a vengeful, knowing half-smile. The next day, I decided to spend the morning in my office instead of walking to the factory building. I knew that John would be loitering around reception there as he had been every morning that month. I felt a little torment was what he needed to make him a slave to his own desire. When you're fishing, you switch from a bait lure to a reflective spoon when the feeding times are past, because most fish will snap at anything that dangles in front of them long enough. This was my plan. Besides, it wasn't like I didn't have plenty to do in my office. The end of summer always meant that our staff of temporary and part-time helpers would be depleted as kids prepared to return to school. This brought with it a mid-quarter reduction in our payroll that needed special handling in preparation of the third-quarter audits. And there were always the bank recs. I was, in fact, sunk deeply into the statement for one of our off- budget accounts at eleven when Daddy called me into his office. I tried to get out of it by telling him what I was doing, but he reminded me I was supposed to have trained one of the accountants in my department to do that last month, and told me that it was important that I come to his office. I wondered what was so important and secret that he needed me in his office as I walked through the labyrinth of corridors that led to Daddy's office. Aunt Marcy, Daddy's executive assistant, was crying when she greeted me outside his door. She was the widow of one of Daddy's oldest friends and I hadn't seen her cry since his funeral, not even when her daughter was awarded the Silver Star for her service as a combat surgeon. She showed me in and closed the door behind me. John was standing near Daddy's big executive desk, looking uncomfortable, and for a moment, I was afraid that Daddy was going to call us down for fraternizing with fellow employees. Of course, that was foolish; not only had Daddy encouraged me to cultivate a relationship with John, but he had always encouraged employee familiarity (even while our lawyers pulled out their hair at how open that left us to harassment suits) because he believed that it engendered loyalty and community within the workforce. Daddy stood and motioned for me to sit. I sat and watched him as he stared at me for a moment in silence. He half-started to say something three times before he was finally able to get it out. "Sweetie," he said, "the police think they've found your brother. I'm sorry, baby, but he's dead." I stood, stunned. How was it possible for them to find "my brother"? "Are they sure?" I asked. Daddy nodded. "They identified him through fingerprint records. They're required by law to have a family member make a positive ID, but that's really just a formality." I was in shock. They couldn't find my body! I wasn't dead. It all seemed so surreal. My head was spinning much as it had back in Madam Egeskov's trailer. John must've been afraid I'd faint, because he made a step forward to catch me. I held my hand up to let him know that I was all right. Daddy waited for me to settle, then he went on in an apologetic tone. "Honey, I need you to go to the morgue and make the ID. I have to tell your mother. She won't take it well." I nodded and mumbled assent. "John has volunteered to take you there and help with the ID." "I'll be okay," I demurred. Daddy came around his desk, his big arms open, and surrounded me in a crushing hug. "I'm sure you will," he comforted. "You are my miracle baby, after all. But none of us should be alone, right now." He hugged me close, and whispered in my ear. "I want this as much for him as for you," he said. "Look at him." Then he released me to a looser hold. I looked at John. He was crushed, as though all of his confident hope that I would somehow return had been the only thing keeping breath in him. Now, he was haunted, bereft of joy. I felt a slight pang and looked away before I forgot how much I hated him. We drove there in silence. I was still wondering at the impossibility of it, and John was lost in his own thoughts. By the time we got to the morgue, the initial shock had worn off. When they took the sheet down, I was in a trance, staring at my own face as if in a dream, the kind where you leave your body behind, asleep, while you float off elsewhere. John held me close in stoic silence as I nodded to the detective that the body was, indeed, Hank Shaw. He told us that "Hank" had been returned from another state that had identified him from a notice our police had issued under the original missing persons claim. I'd been beaten pretty badly, but the cause of death had been a single stab wound up under the sternum and into the heart. He asked if my brother had any enemies. "His wife," I replied. He described Janie as she had been seen with "Hank" by witnesses, and showed me a police artist's sketch. I nodded that was her. He asked me about another man who had been seen with them, larger, possibly Slavic. I shook my head. He assured me that justice would be done. Janie's trail had gone cold just after they had found the body, but the Feds were on the case, now, and the state I'd been discovered in was a capital punishment state. I thanked him, but I didn't really believe they would ever find her. John still hadn't spoken, and he continued his silence as we drove back to the office to get my car. As I hung up from telling Daddy that I had confirmed the identity, I noticed John was blinking slow stinging tears out of his eyes. His knuckles were white where he was gripping the steering wheel. I put a hand gently on his. "Pull over," I instructed him, quietly. He glanced at me, scary-eyed, like a horse in a fire, then did as I asked, pulling into a grocery store parking lot. When the truck was stopped and in park, he sagged down, deflated, his hands still gripping the steering wheel like a drowning man. "It's my fault, Bailey," he finally said. "I killed him." I knew that was wrong. "No," I corrected. "He was killed halfway across the country. You had nothing to do with it." He looked up at me, his eyes filled with guilt. "But I did," he said. "I drove her to the motel. I helped her find the company that bought the furniture from her." I pulled him into my arms and held him n a hug, but he went on. "She told me he was abusing her. She showed me the bruises. I believed her. I?" He pulled away and looked me in the eyes, his face haunted by remorse. "I didn't even check with Hank to see if it was true!" In that moment, I realized that he had always been loyal, that for the tiniest instant his concern for someone else's welfare had over-ridden that loyalty. It hurt me that he blamed himself. I felt the pang again, deep in my chest, and pulled him into a tight hug so he wouldn't see the pained expression it forced on me. When it passed, I was suffused with joy and sorrow. Joy at holding and being held by him, smelling his utter maleness, feeling his strong arms around me, but sorrow at the pain I knew he was feeling, that I felt with him. "She was that way," I assured him. "She had everyone fooled. Especially m?Hank." "But I should have known," he said, pulling back again. "No," I corrected, kissing the tears from his cheeks. "None of this was you." I kissed him until I could feel him respond. "Take me home, John." Some may say that I was dancing on my own grave, and I have to admit that, in retrospect, it was probably at least a little inappropriate that I rushed home from the morgue to jump into bed. John needed to be loved, however. He needed to feel the touch of loving hands, and the warmth of a loving body, and the kiss of loving lips, and to know that he deserved that love. And I needed to feel an anchor in reality after the impossibility of my own experience. My plan was gone, replaced with a need to have John and to be taken by him. As we drove back to my house, I opened John's belt and the button at the top of his pants. I slid my hand in and stroked his cock until we arrived in my driveway. I followed him out his door, my hand in his pants until the last possible moment. He looked around guiltily and pulled his shirt down as we hastily walked to the door. I found my keys along the way, and turned to kiss him deeply before opening the door. His hands, that had been on my back found themselves cupping my breasts as I spun in his grip to turn the key in the lock. I'd worn a button-down prairie dress to work, tied around the waist with a simple cloth belt to give it more shape. The top button opened as we entered, and John opened my collar and, bending down as we moved, kissed the back and sides of my neck. The second button was undone by the time we reached the stairs, and so was his fly. I turned around and jumped into his arms, working his pants off his hips with my feet as he bathed my neck and upper chest with butterfly kisses. He carried me up the stairs and dropped me roughly onto my bed. The third, fourth, and fifth buttons were now gone and he followed them with more kisses, now mixed with a few nips and teasing touches of his tongue. My dress was now open to my belly button, and I thanked god that I'd worn a front-clasp bra that morning. It was soon open as well and his mouth and fingers danced upon my breasts and nipples like a Broadway show. I was wallowing in a river of pleasure and sensation. The sixth and, finally, the seventh button opened, and now John had access to my most private of places. My panties slipped quickly down my legs and John teased around my pubic area, heightening my desires, teasing me ever upward. His fingers skimmed my upper body, across my breasts and down my tummy and back. Now he was licking me and nipping at my labia, his mouth, lips and tongue giving me ever-growing spikes of pleasure. They built inexorably until finally, like a dam bursting, I cried out in orgasm. It surprised me that this orgasm had not felt a lot different from orgasms I'd has as my male self. It was largely focused on the clitoral stimulation. Unlike the male orgasm, it felt incomplete, however. Something seemed oddly missing. As I settled down, john kissed his way back up to me, and soon I felt what had been missing. The head of his cock lay nestled just at the edge of my pussy, and he looked deeply into my eyes, silent asking if he should continue. I nodded, and he began to slide into me. It hurt, at first?not because I was a virgin (I was), but because my previous orgasm had caused my vaginal muscles to contract, making me uncomfortably tight. John was considerate, however, and slowly, but steadily entered me, pulling back to give me time and room to relax and adjust, then carefully pressing in. Soon, after an eternity of pleasurable pain, I felt his pubic bone against my own, and knew he was in all the way. He drew back and out of me again, and I immediately felt a longing for him, then he re-entered me with more authority than before. Out and I suffered the feeling of loss. In, and I was filled. Over and over he repeated, his pace building. I raised my knees and wrapped my legs around his waist, flung my arms around his neck and held on for my life. Our moans mounted together in the silent afternoon, a wordless duet building to a mutual crescendo. I orgasmed, again. This time it was completely different; every cell in my body seemed suffused with bliss and completion. Vaguely, I felt the moisture of John's orgasm within me, a wetness within my wetness. We kissed breathlessly through the fading afterglow, and John sagged beside as he softened out of me. "I love you, Bailey," he whispered in my ear. I smiled, not the triumphant smile of my plan's fruition, but the beatific smile of a woman in love. I turned to him and shined the smile on him. "I love you, too," I beamed. We lay together for a while, and when we woke, we made love again. This time, the end was not so climactic, but it was good, nonetheless. We showered together, and only a fear of chafing stopped us from doing it all over again. We buried my body on a cold and clear September morning when the leaves were just starting to turn. Mother cried through the entire funeral and the wake. I read a passage from A Farewell To Arms that had meant a lot to me when I was Hank, but seemed strange and distant, now. The unreality of it all struck me, and I started to cry at the end. John was there, and walked me to my seat before returning and speaking at length of what a great friend I'd been ("a great friend who was willing to destroy you for being a good guy," I reflected in bitter silence). John stayed with me through the burial and the wake. I felt like I had died that day in Madame Egeskov's trailer. I mourned a brother that had been me and wished I'd known the good man my fellow mourners were describing. John went home with me, and held me until I fell asleep in his arms then he carried me up to my bed and laid me on top of the covers before going downstairs to sleep on the sofa. I awoke shortly after and, changing into my pajamas, went downstairs and laid with him on the sofa. John came over and stayed the night most days after that. We went out together. We stayed in together. We had dinner with my folks, with his mom. It was an idyllic month, and I couldn't have been happier. Then I missed my period. At first I didn't notice it. It wasn't like I usually counted the days, anyway, but I had an idea when it should be, and I knew when I was a week late, then two weeks. That was when I started to worry. I bought a home pregnancy kit and tried it one night when John hadn't come home with me. When the little pink plus sign appeared, I felt a tightness in my chest. John and I had known each other for a long while, but we'd only been dating for about a month. How would he react? I took a half day from work the following week for an appointment with my gynecologist. Thos home pregnancy tests were notoriously inaccurate, everybody said so. He performed his examination and told me we should probably wait for the lab work to come in the next day, but that everything seemed to point at a pregnancy. By a strange coincidence, John took me out the next night to a very expensive restaurant. The doctor had called right before I left the office to change into something suitable. The lab work confirmed our suspicions. John picked me up, and if he thought I was acting oddly, he didn't show it. We were showed to our table, and made small talk. The waiter brought champagne. I tried to demure, but he poured anyway, and I decided I'd just drink water and ignore the glass of wine. When I looked back to John, he was down on his knee and bringing a small, velvet-covered box out of his pocket. He looked deeply into my eyes and began, "Bailey Shaw, would you?" I interrupted him by placing my hand softly on his. "Wait," I said, "I have to tell you something," He was puzzled. Who wouldn't be? "You know I love you." That seemed to puzzle him more, and scare him a little. He looked like he was waiting for some big blow off. "I'm pregnant." "You're..." "Pregnant, yes. I've suspected for a couple of weeks, but it was just confirmed today." "Will you marry me, anyway?" "What?" "I don't see how this changes things. I was going to ask you to marry me before you stopped me. I mean, I guess we won't have a long engagement or anything, but I don't really like those anyway. " He looked at me with hope and fear in his eyes. "That is, if you want to marry me." I laughed and kissed him on his lips. "Of course, I