This is the last chapter in this series.

I make them sunny-side-up. I bang more pots and pans. Billy sits at the table smoking a cigarette over his second cup of coffee. My toes are numb on the tile floor. There’s hidden breeze somewhere and my legs protest in a mess of gooseflesh. A thin, white t-shirt stops just below my navel.

“There’s a hole in those.” Billy says. I carefully remove his eggs from the frying pan.

“Excuse me?” He nods in my direction and I notice two holes in my underwear, right along the hipbone, as if a vampire had attacked me in my sleep. “Oh. I’ll change them in a minute.” He goes back to reading the morning paper.

I push my fingers into the pork chops I’ve defrosted. The meat is ribbed for my pleasure. I push in further and wiggle them. I feel the insides of this dead animal. It feels good. I dip them in flour and fry the outsides in oil. The sizzle turns me on and suddenly breakfast isn’t such a chore anymore.

“Fuck!” Oil splatters my bare arms. Billy is right beside me.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s burning me.”

He takes the spatula and turns them carefully. When he goes to sit back down, I take his hand, pull him close and rub the small of his back.

When Billy first came home, the pollution of every city he’d ever been to clung to him like shrink wrap. It hasn’t changed. There’s the evidence: mania in Tokyo, loneliness in Greece, horror in Paris. I grunt softly and push him against the counter. He rests his head against the cabinets above, eyes closed. I tickle the cool skin beneath the waistband of his flannel night pants. He runs a hand through my hair, electrifying my scalp. The sound of the pork chops interrupts me. I turn the stove off. He goes upstairs.

I make his plate, careful not to break the yolks. I cut his chops into bite-size pieces. I set his food beside his coffee. All of my skin rises to greet the breeze again. It stands at attention beneath my tattered shirt. When he returns, he holds a pair of red underwear with a white and red heart trim. He kisses my mouth. His lips linger for a few swelled seconds. I pick at my food when I sit down. I don’t want to eat.

“Eat your food.” He insists, while he mixes his together and shovels the entire concoction into his mouth at rapid speed. So I do. I give him a warm-up on his coffee, take his plate when he’s through.

“You don’t have to wear ratty things.” He says, gesturing to my t-shirt. My dark nipples peer through the worn cotton.

“Billy it’s pajamas.” I run dishwater.

“Breakfast was good.” I nod as I scrub pans, dirty water soiling my shirt. I lay the pots carefully next to one another and wipe off, fabric sticking to my skin.

“God I’m all wet. I’m going to shower.” He finishes the last of his coffee and stands.

“Don’t use my towels, I want to shower too.”

“I said it first!” I run ahead of him upstairs. The bedroom is a disaster. Open suitcases and clothing lie across the single bed, spilling into the master bathroom. My creams, powders and makeup are lumped together in the sink. The towels are folded neatly. Within seconds of turning the shower on, steam sneaks around the door like a dirty alley cat. Billy grabs me by the waist. We both laugh.

I remove my shirt and bathe in the steam for a minute from the doorway. Billy sits on the bed and takes off his house socks. Then I climb over piles of dresses and designer slacks to retrieve a bottle of shampoo that’s still tucked away in our luggage. I step into the shower and don’t move. The water is as hot as I can stand. The door cracks open and he comes in like a mouse. If his head can fit inside, the rest of him will follow.

“I can see you. You’re 6′3.” He hands me a towel as I step out. In the bedroom, I change into a pair of frayed jeans and a black tank top. My hair is still dripping as I meet his gaze.

Full, delirious and freshly scrubbed my eyes struggle to stay open. I crawl onto his side of the bed and burrow beneath the blankets. Try as he might, I can always hear him coming. He pulls the blanket down and
slips in beside me a second later.

“I told you not to sleep in my bed anymore.” But a finger finds his jaw line.

“We need a new bedspread.”

“I know. Are we going grocery shopping today? We can look for one while we’re out.”

“The sheets are a mess.”

“Billy?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

We lie together in a bizarre half-sleep on opposite sides of the bed. I put my hands beneath the blanket again. I find his leg. Now I’m at peace. I find his thigh. I’m an explorer of the most curious kind. If he were to leave again I’d have the skills to find him.

But he won’t. In the thickness of memory, in the dim rafters of his mind, he’ll always have me, hanging, waiting. His hand finds mine. We both find his hip.

Don’t forget to stay together.