ME, CINDERELLA?(70)

I only had to think for a second to find an example. “If I love you, and you love Satie, then I love Satie.”

Eliot laughed appreciatively. “And don't you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Two of three already. And now?”

“Now…”

“The reflexive property.”

I swallowed. My voice was softer than before. There was only one example possible here, and I did not know if I could bring myself to say it until I opened my mouth, turning my head back to the notes.

"I love myself."

“Yes?” Eliot took my hands in his; his blood pumped fast through his veins and his skin was hot on mine.

“Yes,” I said, and for the first time in a long, long time, I really did.





CHAPTER TWENTY ONE



“Perfect numbers, like perfect men, are very rare.” - Descartes



Eliot insisted that Brynn take her time before getting up and about, and while she protested, he could tell that she was glad for the forced rest that day. He made her a hot tomato bisque for lunch and stayed by her side when she napped. Her dreams were fitful, and she woke up with a scream.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The hunter! Where is he? Where is he?” Her eyes were wild.

“Shh, Brynn, it’s alright. He’s gone, remember?” Eliot smoothed her hair with his hand and kissed her forehead.

“He’s gone?”

“Gone far away. You’re safe now.”

Brynn swallowed water from the glass at her bedside table, her eyes still troubled and distant.

“Can I do anything?” Eliot asked. Brynn shook her head and lay silent for a moment, her breathing returning to normal.

“That book,” Brynn said finally. “The one you’re reading. It has an English title.”

“It’s poetry,” Eliot said. She was so attentive. “It’s one of the first books I was able to read in English.”

“Will you read me something?”

Eliot began to object, but thought better of it. He brought the book over to her side and flipped to the last page he had been reading. Self-consciously he began to speak, but as the poem went on his voice fell into a natural speaking rhythm. Brynn closed her eyes to listen.



“When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;



How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;



And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”



“That’s beautiful.” A tear had slipped down Brynn’s cheek, and she wiped it away with her finger. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.” He put his hand on hers. “Even a poorly done poetry reading.”

“Can I ask you for something else, then?” Her voice was thin, tired. Scared, maybe.

“What is it?”

“Will you hold me? Here, in bed?”

A strand of hope wound itself around Eliot’s heart: that he was not doing things entirely wrong this time, that he might do some good or be some good to her, that his guilt might be assuaged. He lay down next to Brynn and she turned into him, pulling herself tight against his chest. His mouth went dry when he felt her soft curves touch him alongside his entire body. His arms encircled her protectively, shielding her from the rest of the world.

Brief as it was, his kiss against her forehead was meant to be kind, warm. She lifted her head and he tumbled headlong into her gaze. If he had a soul, it was burning now, set aflame by the desire he saw in her eyes.

“Eliot?” Brynn’s hand was on his chest, her fingers toying insistently with his shirt button. She did not take her eyes away from his.

Eliot took her hand in his, clasping it chastely. His eyes asked a question and hers answered. Answering her longing, he bent down and seized her lips against his.

“Oh!” Brynn let out a soft moan as Eliot deepened the kiss, shifting himself toward her on the bed. He waited for her to respond, taking each step slowly, carefully, until she accepted his advances with her sighs, her fingers clutching at his arms tightly, pulling him.

“Let me know when you want to stop, Brynn.” Eliot’s lips moved against her cheek.

“I will.”

“Anytime. Let me know.” Eliot did not want to hurt her, and especially not after what had happened. If he stepped over the line…he shuddered to think of the pain she had suffered through.