I make a plate of fruit and cheese, pouring two glasses of Riesling, nicely chilled. Carrying the repast back to the bed, I see that Mara has sat up, her damp hair in a dark rope over one shoulder, her eyes silvery in the reflected light of the television.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks me.
Smiling to myself, I set the food before her. Mara has an incredible ability to treat the bizarre as normal. To continue on in her daily life no matter what happens to her.
She tears into the food, stuffing BellaVitano and raspberries into her mouth.
“I’m starving,” she says, unnecessarily.
I eat the same thing as her, in the same order. Tasting the sharp, nutty cheese and the tart raspberries as one food. Sipping the wine in between, letting it pop in the back of my mouth. Closing my eyes like Mara does, focusing on the food.
“It’s not better than sex,” I say. “But it’s damn good.”
Mara laughs.
I don’t know if I’ve ever made her laugh before. I like the way it rolls out of her, throaty and pleased.
“Better than sex with some people,” she says. “But not you.”
I feel a warm burning in my chest. Is it the wine?
“You’re a responsive subject,” I say.
“Have you ever done that before?” she asks me.
She seems curious, not jealous.
“No,” I reply. “Not like that.”
“Neither have I,” she says, unnecessarily. I already know how uncreative men can be.
“What movie do you want?”
She shrugs. “I was just looking through Netflix.”
“What about the one you mentioned at the Halloween party? Is it on there?”
Mara blushes. “You don’t want to watch that. It’s old.”
“Yes I do. Put it on.”
She finds the film, which has a ridiculous illustrated poster, reminiscent of old fantasy novels from the 70s.
It’s a classic “portal into another world” story. I watch it like I watch everything—carefully, as if there’s going to be a test later.
“You think it’s stupid,” Mara says, finishing off the last of the berries, sucking the juice off her fingertips.
“No. I understand why you liked it when you were little.”
Mara nods. “I would have done anything to disappear into another world. Watching it now, I guess it’s kind of creepy how she’s a kid playing with toys and David Bowie is a grown ass man. I thought it was romantic. I guess I wished I had someone powerful who gave a shit about me.”
I look at her wild, elfin profile—ethereal like David Bowie, not soft like the youthful Jennifer Connoley.
“He’s not exactly taking care of her,” I point out. “He’s seducing her. Manipulating her.”
Mara turns her head, staring at me steadily with those metal-edged irises.
“I don’t want to be taken care of,” she says. “I want to be seen.”
My heart rate spikes as it only does for Mara. Not when I’m angry. Not when I’m violent. Only for her.
I was an ambush predator. I lived by concealment and camouflage.
What would it be like to strip myself bare?
It feels like destruction. Like immolation.
What if I’m wrong?
Could the pleasure of intimacy outweigh the danger?
This is a question perched on a cliff. No peering over—I’ll only find the bottom by jumping.
Mara stares right back at me, ferocious, unashamed. Certain of what she wants and how to get it.
I’ve never held back from what I wanted.
Not for morals. Not for laws. I’ll be damned if I’ll do it for fear.
I’ve taken a life, but never shared a life.
I feel my hand lifting over the covers, crossing the space between us, cupping the fine curve of her jaw while my thumb rests on her full lower lip.
“I see you,” I say.
“I know you do,” Mara replies, quietly. “And I want to see you.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
She doesn’t blink or even hesitate.
“It’s not a wish. It’s a requirement.”
32
Mara
Cole drives me home early in the morning. I’m planning to catch a couple hours’ sleep, then head over to the studio to work.
The intimacy between us is fragile but real, like a thin rim of ice across a lake. I don’t know if it’s strong enough to bear weight just yet . . . but I’m already walking across.
He pulls up to the curb, flipping the car around so I can exit on the passenger side.