in a universe void before you came.
And when the years have passed,
and we have watched a thousand sunsets,
and we are bent,
our bodies crooked with age ask me again.
In the twilight,
in the shadow of the life we have shared,
&
nbsp; ask me if I love you,
and my heart will answer before my lips can part.
My love, my life,
my heart never left your hands.
Always, evermore, even after.
Still.
BEHIND ME, I hear sniffing. I’m aware that the audience is moved by Grip’s words, but they cannot feel a fraction of the emotion drowning my senses until he is the only thing I can perceive with any clarity. Every other person, every other sound and sight is mist. The power, the passion of his words turned on me has left me undone, unraveled, a ribbon unspooled. I barely hear the words the preacher speaks, legally linking us together. It’s such a formality. The words we spoke to one another are what joined us. Our words, our wills bind us, and even with so many looking on, clapping, cheering that we are now husband and wife, I can’t make myself look away from him, and he can’t tear his eyes away from me. We are caught in this most exquisite intimacy, and neither of us wants out. We want to revel in it, to revel in each other, for the rest of our days.
Part II
Quote
“Dwell in possibility.”
– Emily Dickinson
Chapter 28
Grip
THE DARKNESS IS SO DEEP, so dense, I can’t see my hand in front of my face.
“For the record,” I tell Bristol from the passenger seat of her car, “when I said we should use blindfolds, I was thinking kinkier, maybe with some cuffs . . . maybe some anal.”
“Anal?” Though I can’t see her face, her voice sounds horrified. “I told you your dick’s too big for anal. Not happening.”
“I’m gonna take that as a backhanded compliment.” I laugh, reaching up to touch the thick cotton shrouding my eyes.
“Don’t you dare take that blindfold off,” Bristol orders. “And you can take it as a compliment, insult, I don’t care, as long as we’re clear that your big dick is not going in my tiny asshole.”
She says that now, but over the last year of marriage, there hasn’t been much I haven’t been able to persuade her to do.
Except anal. It’s a work in progress.
“Are we there yet?” I ask, tuning all my other senses to the environment to figure out where “there” is.
“Are you seven years old? We’ve been driving for a grand total of ten minutes . . . but, yes, we’re almost there.”