Making Do.

19Mar08

Brock would give anything to change this.

He hates it, hates it so much, and yet there is nothing in the world that could stop him when he gets her whispered messages, breathed hurriedly into the receiver of a telephone, usually not even her own.

As he goes to her, he wonders what could have, would have, might have been. What if he had met her before her father. What if he’d been able to take the old man out of the way.

What if it had been him.

She meets him at the door, all furious kisses and quick hands pulling at his clothing. He matches her passion, shoving her back inside the house, clutching at her hips and groaning into her mouth as she grabs impatiently at his crotch.

They don’t do it in churches here, the government condemned religion, he remembers. She blinks, unsure, and glances at the window, but it’s covered in snow and he’s yelling and then her father smiles and blocks any glimpse she might have of him, and then she signs the papers and it’s over.

They stumble through the house, hallways cluttered with toys and little shoes, and she’s yanking his jeans down even as they walk. They reach the master bedroom and clumsily make it to the bed; she falls backwards when her legs hit it, and he falls after her, pinning her wrists to the mattress and biting down in the side of her neck.

She’s screaming, trying to make him understand but he can’t. He doesn’t get why she had to do it, why what her father wants is so important, why she can’t just leave with him. She leaves the room in tears, face clutched in her hands, and he knows that no matter how many times she comes to him, part of her never will.

Her legs are wrapped around his waist, and he throws her clothing haphazardly over his shoulders. He pulls her hips up and thrusts into her, eyes locked with hers but she blinks and turns her head as she cries out. He is gentle at first, but then she curls her fingers against his back, and he feels cold metal, on her right hand because Russians don’t wear their wedding rings on their left, he remembers, and he grows angrier and less delicate, groaning her name but thinking only of what should be, not what is, and then she flips them and is leaning over him, hair like curtains around their faces. He grabs her hips and squeezes, and she comes, sobbing, the tears dripping down her nose to splatter on his cheeks, and all he can do is push her head down and kiss her until he finishes too.

When she climbs off him, she lays down and curls up miserably next to him, and he knows how she feels, so he holds her for the precious few moments they have. After a little while, he knows that he cannot stay anymore, so he grabs her chin and presses his lips to hers, then leaves. She doesn’t follow, and he doesn’t expect her to. In a little while, he will be back, and he’ll bring them and Brock knows that if she ever tried to follow him to the door, they would never see her again, so she doesn’t.

On the drive back, he sits in silence, thinking about her dried tears on his skin, and tries to figure out if her father is laughing at him in hell, just down there cackling away at Brock’s pain, but it doesn’t matter because he is driving away from her to go sit and wait for her next call.

One of these days, he’s going to get her to the door.

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