Atlas Comes Home

A Story by Mornaric

A tale of the end of one story out of many.

She is here. My senses all together tell me what I already instinctively know. Were I stricken with a malady or injured in an accident that left me off much worse than Tommy playing pinball ever was, I would known without one shadowy fragment of doubt that the other half of my soul was standing or sitting or laying in the same room that I was in. Our love for each other says this much at least; it continues to say so much more...

I can hear her, but she does not speak a single word. Her voice is as melodic as the rest of her, of course, but at this moment, I do not miss it. She manages to sing to me while she remains perfectly silent. I can hear her breathing. Softly, easily. I've watched her draw breath many times, so I know how fast her chest is rising and falling as she takes in life giving oxygen. She is calm, yet I know the panic that awaits just under the surface of her waters. She is unhurried, but I know there is a sudden rush of furious action just waiting to be let off the leash made of both controlled passion and barely controlled desire.

I hear something else as well. A soft whisper is made as her silken robe falls off of her shoulders, landing with the barest hint of noises as it comes to rest in a purplish pool around her feet. I know what robe it is, even sight unseen. I've heard it drop before; I've seen it drop before. Caused by both her hand and mine, I know that robe as well as she does. It was a gift, from her to me, but she would not have worn it had she not known it was my favorite for her to wear. No woman can resist the feel of silk upon their own silky body. Even fewer still can resist the feeling it causes within them when they know that their mate approves.

I can smell her, and I know that she is coming closer. I heard the water of a running shower earlier, but it is not that clue by which I know that she is fresh and renewed. She uses a particular combination of body soap and shampoo that has always reminded me of hot cinnamon buns, straight out of the oven and only just now covered with the perfect amount of vanilla icing. When I told her once that she reminded me of food, her response was one that only would have been shared between two lovers.

“If you are hungry, then by all means, eat your fill...”

Her scent touches me as solidly as she would have were she to reach out with her hands and touched me. I've smelled her before, of course, so it is not something new to me. I've smelled her covered in oil and I've smelled her covered in dirt. I've had the distinction of smelling her much like I would catch wind of my mates at the bar smelling before and after a rousing fight; that is, covered in beer and blood and sweat. Covered in s**t or covered in puke; she's brought it all before me. The comment want to make at such times, whether half thought of or not, dies upon my lips as soon as I realize that she is heading for the bathroom...

...it dies even sooner if she beckons me to come help her.

I feel her touch, finally, as she stands so close that not even a piece of paper could be slipped between us. Still, I keep my eyes closed because I want each of my senses to experience this wondrous being one savory moment at a time. Behind closed lids, my gaze follows wherever I feel her fingers leave a trail of fire upon my skin. From my right shoulder, down my arm and across the back of my right hand, it feels like molten lava is being poured over me. The rest of her body this close to mine seems to me to be no different than a matched set of volcanoes simmering on high.

Because of the heat, I almost miss what she says. It is an old joke with us by now; one that is not taken seriously anymore. Like most things between us, it has grown to mean something else entirely. To anyone else that may had heard her brief comment, they may have thought that my lover was being sarcastic. Truthfully, that's how it started. “You need to shave...” came out as her hand gently cupped my chin, feeling fine whiskers upon my face.

The unspoken and well understood second part of that sentence was, “...and if you do, I am going to cut your heart out.” In other words, she preferred it if a razor did not come near my face for a few days. Fine by me, I hated the things anyway. Besides, when I had started to look like a member of ZZ Top? Well...

...I wasn't about to turn down her offer to shave me.

I see her, then. My eyes have decided they have been left out of the discovery of this fairy-tale for far too long. I blink as I look slightly down at her face not more than three, maybe four inches away from me. The smile upon my face must be matching hers. They are not the same types of smiles that would happen when you hear or see something funny. Need, want and desire. This is where the looks upon our faces are born. It is something that can not be fully explained, but that is the thing with this. It doesn't have to be. Start to tell anyone that has ever been in the same type of situation and they knowingly nod their heads.

My uncovered sight confirms what I already knew. The room is dark with only the light of the moon coming through the skylights and the closed patio door. Sure, we could have probably turned on lights or lit candles or even got a fire going in the fireplace, but between us, the simplest things tend to be the best things.

Besides, the moonlight coming in and highlighting her from behind made her look magical and ethereal in a way that would have found much in common with the description of a fairy-like elven princess. Who am I to complain about such magic? The shadows actually cause more to be revealed than full light would have. Curves are accented by the sharp moonbeams and the just as sharp shadows, and I can not stop looking at her.

She sees this, naturally. She knows how to do this magic that I and she enjoy so well. With a small raise of her eyebrow, she steps back a few inches and almost immediately I feel a sense of lose. Fortunately, it does not last. She stands there, turning slowly in the moonlight and I am able to see everything. The profile of her face and the long blackish-blue richness of her hair. The round curve of her backside tops svelte-like legs. A chest rising and falling in perfect time to both her breath and my heartbeat...

...and like that, before I can jump out of my skin and after I have to remind myself to breath, she is back up close and against me again, banishing any possible thoughts of loss I may have just had mere seconds before.

In the eternity of time that happens between one heartbeat and another, I taste her finally. The kiss comes rapidly, almost unexpectedly and certainly before I can form any other rational thought about it. Good thing at least part of me can run on automatic. My brain catches up soon enough and I start to fully enjoy the taste of her mouth as it explores mine.

I've kissed her before, and I will kiss her again. I've kissed her as she decided to share a strawberry with me, and I've kissed her as I've finished off an ice-cube. We've had the quick peck on the cheek and suitable for public-type of kisses and we've engaged in the “Who really gives a damn if they see or not?” type of public displays of affection. But the best, by far and away, are these. The ones where you both know that that the most important thing in the world right now that is happening is the pulsing of two heartbeats thumping out a perfect rhythm with each other.

And as lovers, our tastes do not stop with just each others lips or tongues...

Right then, I must have reached out and touched a bare copper wire that had enough electricity running through it to power an entire city. I did not, of course, but that was the closest way I could describe her reaching down and touching what physically was the most obvious indication that I was a man. This also had been done several times before, shared in both directions and always with a great passion, but tonight there seemed to be something different. A new-found desire and need that could not be ignored. She gently and lovingly caressed me for a moment, then guided me into her most inner and private self.

As she did, the conversations we had between each other earlier and pertaining to this night in particular came back to me and played out in my mind in a nanosecond.

“Are you sure about this? Do you really want to?”

“Of course I am. I'm...WE'RE...ready, finally.”

“Yes, we are. A boy or a girl?”

“It doesn't matter. The love for both will be equal...”

This was not our first night making love, nor was our last. But it was the first night that we had finally, truthfully and honestly admitted to each other, that we were ready to be a family. As I felt the passion build, I leaned my head back to scream out my enjoyment of the storm that was coming. I heard a loud noise; perhaps a clap of thunder, or an explosion somewhere...

...or simply just the mixing of both of our voices together in eternal and perfect harmony...

----------

“Christ, what a mess.”

“Yeah, a large bore handgun will do that to you. What do we have so far?”

“Ok, well about forty minutes ago, the night-time clerk thought he heard a noise; one that wasn't the passing Red-line. Says he came up to check what it was. Knocked a few times, called out a warning that he was coming in, then tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it, looked in and saw this, and ran back down stairs and called us.”

“That before or after he puked all over himself?”

“Dunno, I'll go ask him.”

“Never mind. What else? We know who he is yet?”

“Yeah. Got his I.D. from his check-in at the front desk two nights ago. The deceased is named Charles Henry Atlas, aged...wow. Aged 100, as of today. Address says he lives over on Eddington, near the old school that was torn down last year.”

“Hmm. That's ironic. I went to that school. There was a large statue out in front of the gym. A statue of Atlas. The real one...”

“Something the matter chief?”

“Dunno. Name sounds familiar. Maybe he and I went there at the same time.”

“Spooky huh?”

“Yeah. I'll have to check later. It rings a bell. Something about a guy that was going to proprose to his girl on prom night, but she died in a hit and run before he could ask her. Anything else? Any possessions missing?”

“Nah. No signs of forced entry; no signs of any struggling of any sort and nothing seemingly missing. Pretty much what it looks. Poor b*****d checked in with nothing more than a gym bag, the cloths he's wearing and the cane there next to the bed. Clerk says he went out once and came back soon after clutching a brown paper bag like it was the holy grail or something. Wouldn't have been the first poor sod wanting to drown their sorrows...”

“We should wrap this up before it starts to draw more than the usual flies with cameras. That all?”

“Yeah. No, wait. There was something odd. Besides his brains being all over the wall I mean. When we pulled the gun from his hand, we saw this. Looks like an engagement ring. Old one, pretty fancy at that. He was wearing it on his little finger.”

“Looks too small to be his.”

“Yeah chief, that's what I thought. It was on the pinky finger of his right hand. Kinda looks like a girls ring...”