life with more cowbell

Here’s another postcard short story that was published in an anthology. This one comes with a content warning, as it gets spicy.

I won’t call you Baby when we first meet.

Let’s say we’re at a party. I’d walk across the room to where you’re standing, probably after noticing you sometime earlier chatting with your friends, maybe someone we both know. I’d have a shy, crooked grin on my face as our mutual friend introduces us. I’d say “Hi” and we’d shake hands. It’s then that you might notice the silver claddagh ring on the middle finger of my right hand, turned with the crown facing inward, my heart open and unoccupied. You might already know this, or you might ask me about it. I’d probably blush a little as I tell you about the mythology of the ring, then I’d look sad when I mention that when I first put it on my finger I was in love and the crown was turned outward, ring on my left hand.

We’d talk and drink and tell each other our stories. If the music is right, we’d dance – maybe only to fast songs at first, but then a slow song would come on and we’d have lost any blush of shyness by then, drawn by the first flutterings of attraction. Your hands on my shoulders, my hands on your waist, bodies close together, we’d sway in rhythm to the music. And maybe we’d be about the same size and the warmth of your cheek against mine would make me long to kiss you, but I’d be too shy for that and instead I’d breathe in the fragrance of your hair, the scent of you, and I’d commit every sensation to memory in case I never see you again.

And I definitely won’t call you Baby when I ask for your phone number.

I won’t call you Baby when we go out on our first date.

I’d probably have that same goofy grin on my face when we meet at a movie theatre or restaurant – or maybe we’d meet in a café that plays old jazz standards, and sit in the sun on the patio sipping cappuccino. We’d talk and smile and notice the colour of each other’s eyes. Maybe I’d make you laugh and I’d think, ‘Wow, you’ve travelled to such exciting places and chosen an amazing career’ and ‘God, the sunlight makes your hair shine like a halo around your lovely head’.

When we kiss goodnight, I’d lean in to you gently, maybe brush a stray strand of hair from your face as I gaze into your eyes, hoping that you want our lips to meet as much as I do, and I’d pull you close to me, my arms wrapping around you as our mouths meet softly, sweetly, neither of us knowing if the warm glow in our bellies is coming from the inside or the outside.

And I won’t call you Baby, certainly not then.

I won’t call you Baby when we make love for the first time.

But I’d revel in the heat of your body, my skin on your skin, breathing you in and out as lips and hands touch the places that ignite us further. I’d explore every inch of you with my hands, fingers, mouth, tongue, your sighs, your moans directing my movements. And maybe I’d find a spot I could dwell upon, to tease you, to arouse you further and then undulate with you as your pleasure crescendos.

I would lose myself under your touch, every cell coming to life with each of your caresses, planting a kiss on whatever part of your beautiful body comes near my open, hungry mouth. And as my body rises, burning for that inevitable explosion, I’d call on God, on Jesus – recovering Catholic that I am. And when my tingling wet flesh sings its final notes beneath the dance of your fingers, I would call your name, breathless and hoarse as my fists grip damp sheets.

But never will I call you Baby.

I won’t call you Baby the day one of us asks the other to share a home, a life, together.

My answer would be “Hell, yes!” if you asked me. If I’m the one who asks, I’d hold your hand and tell you how much I love you and how I want to grow old with you and our two cats and have wheelchair races down the hall. And I would take that ring off of my right hand and put it on my left, crown facing outward, and I would have one picked out for you, to tell the world how our two hearts are occupied.

And we’d debate over what colour to paint the living room and you’d compromise by letting me stencil the bedroom. We’d divide up household chores; I’d be especially glad that you actually liked vacuuming and you’d be relieved that I didn’t mind cleaning the bathroom. And we’d christen every room with wine and love-making, with music playing and the cats looking on, scandalized.

And if you should die before me, I won’t call you Baby, not even then.

But I would hope to be there with you when you go, so you wouldn’t be alone and I could say goodbye. And then I would hold you close and whisper “I love you” in your ear, knowing how I’d miss you so much, but I probably wouldn’t say it. And after the last sweet breath has left your body and your spirit soars away, I would kiss you our last goodnight.

I would play your favourite songs and have bunches of your favourite flowers and sing Amazing Grace for you. And I would bring flowers and crystals to your grave – or maybe you’d have asked me to scatter your ashes at a spot that was very special to you.

All those years together and I won’t call you Baby – not even once.

But I might call you Sweetie. If you don’t object, that is.

This is a Promise was originally published in Hot & Bothered 3, Arsenal Pulp Press, 2001.