Driftwood Deeds(26)

In that sense I loved the ache of movement, to feel that, in my flesh, everything was still remembered—at least for now. I sat up and placed my naked feet on the ground. My bottom was sore and my thighs felt like I’d spent hours at the gym going through rigorous stretching exercises. I greeted them both with my fingers, gently, lovingly, grateful their memory wasn’t as fleeting as the sheets’.

I looked for other signs, but my wrists did not boast rope burn, nor did my forehead show any indication that it had been pressed into a carpet for so long. At least, the ropes still hung from the sides of the headboard but, in the cool light of morning, they looked quite harmless. If I hadn’t known any better, they could have been a simple decorative element to the driftwood bed. I leaned in closer and tugged at the hard coils. The knots looked like they hadn’t been opened in years, like they were part of the bed’s design—a bed in which women could be tied down and fucked long and hard until all they wanted was to stay right there and forget there was a world outside this sleepy seaside village.

The sight made me steel my jaw and sit up straight again.

I would need a long shower before I’d be able to face Paul like a professional again, and get this interview over with. Just as I wondered where exactly I had scattered clothes across his house, I saw a small pile of orderly folded things by the door. The pattern looked familiar and I picked up my skirt and blouse, running my fingers over the grain of the fabric with a sigh. He had taken a fresh pair of panties from my luggage and I couldn’t decide whether I felt violated or grateful. In the end, I slipped into them, only glad I didn’t have to look at that smelly, hardened panel of the ones I’d worn the day before.

As I stood up, stretched my legs and quickly put on the rest of my clothes, I found myself wondering if this dark feeling that had settled itself over the comfortable afterglow was regret. But as much as I tried to investigate, a clear answer eluded me. It didn’t feel like regret, not when I only had to close my eyes to feel his lips on me again, and his hand—the sting of his slap or the softer brush of his fingers. I still felt sticky, but I was glad for the clothes when I pulled open the door and exited the room.

Immediately, I was engulfed in breakfast scents of coffee and something warm and sweet, pancakes maybe or waffles. It was strangely jarring but I don’t know what I had expected. When I walked down the squeaky stairs, Paul stuck his head out from the kitchen.

“Oh, there you are, good morning.” He looked calm and fully awake without any remnants of sleep on his face. He had to have seen my momentary confusion, because he stepped into the hallway and ushered me back into the kitchen. Where just last night, I’d lain across the wooden surface with his head between my legs, was now an impressive spread of steaming pancakes, coffee and even tea.

“How long did I...? Sorry, you could have woken me,” I stuttered, still trying to catch up. It immediately felt as though I had started this day off on the wrong note, but it was too late to worry about that now.

“Oh, no. I don’t sleep a lot, been awake for hours. I get my best work done in the early hours of the day.” He pulled out a chair and I plopped into the seat. My brain felt hazy, reluctant. “But today, I thought I’d make sure you get a good breakfast, most important meal of the day, you know?”

I snorted sleepily. “Always thought that was conservative propaganda.”

I was still yawning when he heaped two pancakes onto my plate and then pushed a few other bowls at me. I think he explained about the different sauces—maple syrup, peach sauce he’d canned himself a while ago, cream. My taste buds and stomach perked up, if not my brain.

I don’t know what I had expected. Maybe in the end, I had followed his instructions after all and not expected anything, but this definitely wasn’t it. He didn’t even feel like the man who had held me so tightly the night before just before I’d fallen asleep. I ladled the peach sauce onto my plate, trying not to cry, trying to remember who I was and why I was here.

He watched me while I took my first bite. I leaned back, savoring the tangy sweetness. Just another of those contrasts: he shouldn’t have been as good a cook as he was, he shouldn’t have been as chipper and detached and he definitely shouldn’t make me feel like this, like I couldn’t bear even thinking about walking away from him.

“Sorry, I’m not much of a morning person.” I had only taken a bite or two, something about the taste was like just another caress, especially because he seemed to be watching me for exactly that reaction. “I’m going to grab a shower and then we’ll get that interview done and then I’ll get out of your hair.”