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| Part 2 |
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| I was sitting at the breakfast table, looking at the newspaper. I had snuckout of the bedroom about an hour earlier, trying not to wake him. It wasthe first night since the accident that he had slept through. The quiet of Saturday morning was broken by the sound of his crutchescrashing to the floor. "Shit." "You all right?" "Yes. I knock them over every fucking morning." I could hear him pull himself up and out of bed, and shift his weightheavily from his left leg to his crutches and back as he made his way downthe hallway to the bathroom. There was more clattering of crutches from theother end of the hall, this time the sound of wood falling on the tilefloor. I turned when I heard him come around the corner a few minutes later,breathing heavily as he leaned into his crutches and swung his body forward. "I'll never learn to use these fuckers."He was beautiful in the morning light. His scruffy red hair was standing onend. His face was rough and unshaven, his beard almost two days old. He waswearing only a short cotton robe of mine, which had come undone with theeffort of getting himself from the bathroom to the kitchen. His chest wassmooth and broad, and worked to carry his unfamiliar weight. A starchystrawberry fur began about halfway down his belly, and formed a darkeningtrail that plunged below his waist. His scrotum and cock swung freely,unprotected by the open bathrobe, as he heaved forward from the shoulders,the rest of his body following. His broken ankle trailed, and seemed toarrive last, swung forward to catch up with the rest of him at the lastmoment. The white plaster encasing the fractured limb looked heavy. As hemoved toward the table, he would reach forward with his crutches, and gripthe rug in front of him, while he pushed off with his arms and shoulders,lifting his body momentarily up and off the floor, swinging through like afulcrum. He would land heavily with his left foot, miscalculating a littlebit still his arrival, and then the rest, his chest, his middle with his sexand buttocks, his right thigh, tense, the knee flexed, his leg bent,carefully holding his broken right ankle up, off the ground, out of harm'sway. His naked toes poking out from the plaster cast would swing with therest of his injured foot, forward and back a bit, from the momentum of theenergy it took to pull and then push himself forward. "This robe never stays tied." He was exasperated. He stood on one foot andshifted both crutches to one hand while he pulled out a chair to sit on. Hehopped, heavily, two little hops on his good leg, and then sat, too quickly,knocking his cast against the metal table leg. "Shit! Fuck that hurts." His voice trembled, and he struggled to masterhis emotion. He was not going to cry, not first thing in the morning."I'm sorry. I should have helped. Here, let me get those out of your way.""I don't need your help. I can manage." He was shouting. His voice waslouder than he intended. "I'm sorry." I moved away from the table to get him some coffee, and to hide a smile thatalmost certainly would have been misperceived. In more than a week he stillhad not learned to move smoothly using his crutches. He hated feelinguncoordinated and awkward. He hated not feeling graceful. He hated mostthe frustration of having an athlete's broken body. The man who climbedmountains and ran races and rode his bike to Montreal and back struggledevery morning to get himself out of bed and to the breakfast table. I wassmiling because he was so handsome, so beautiful, so unselfconsciously sexyeven as he struggled with the crutches and the bathrobe and the plasterweight of the cast. I felt lucky to have him here, the fallen angel, in mykitchen, half-naked. I wouldn't have broken his ankle just to keep him, butsince his ankle was broken, and he wasn't going anywhere soon, I was happyto have him, even with his short morning temper. And I intended to keephim, at least for while. "You've gotten better, you know. The first few days, when you were just outof the hospital, I thought for sure we'd have you back there with your otherleg broken or your head cracked open." "This carpeting I can finally navigate. The bedroom and bathroom floors aretoo slick. I still lose my balance. I'll never be able to manage the snowand ice out there. I'm going to be fucking house-bound till spring.""You don't have anywhere you have to go." "I couldn't go anywhere even if I wanted to." "Drink your coffee." I moved behind his chair and rubbed his shoulders andneck. His muscles were tight. I squeezed until he relaxed them a bit. Herolled his head back against my stomach. "Hey handsome. You know watching you come into the room on those crutchesmakes me hard." "Everything makes you hard." He reached up and put his hands on mine,resting on his shoulders, and smiled for the first time all morning. Thatsmile, too, made me hard. I moved in closer behind him, pushing my hardnessagainst the flat back of the kitchen chair. "You know you never came last night." "That's because you came all over me and then fell sound asleep." "Sorry. I guess I owe you one." I moved my fingers through his tangled redhair, and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. My hands moved to hisears, tracing them, poking gently inside. "Not now," he barked, suddenly gruff again. And then softer, almostapologetic, "I haven't even brushed my teeth." |
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