Chapter 44: My Bloody Valentine

Chapter 44

My Bloody Valentine

Sandy was the first firework you saw in the sky. She was precious- better- a diamond so pure that most men were blind to her glow. She was the prize- his reason for fighting. Tom woke up in the midnight blue, Sandy in his arms, feeling her skirt against his khaki pants, watching her breast rise and fall as she slept, her blonde hair bunched beneath his chin, their shoed feet making dangle from the office couch.

Atari was hard- always hard around Sandy- and he thought of the infinite delight that would come from being inside her, from putting himself in her sweet spot, from being where he belonged.

He didn’t dare.

She stirred, opening her eyes, full of sleep and relief, blinking at him. Tom looked into her eyes, eyes that held the ocean- storm, rage, sweet and salted- and it was, as always, his first sip of whiskey. She smiled at him and then those round eyes closed again, taking her back to sleep. Part of Tom went with her.

Sandy’s past would make you cry your eyes out, and no one wants to cry. She was subject to torturous, inhuman scenarios- nightmares to shock even Atari. But somehow she was still here- alive, real... she had overcome: she had survived. He tried to think back when he had met her- she was working as a hostess on the strip, riding the laps of gentleman customers and taking her turns in the backroom. He had walked in one day and Sandy had seen him- her eyes like curveballs- walked up and put her arms around him, as if she had known him forever, and Tom couldn't say he felt different. He felt her crying against his collar, felt her chest heaving, and he was so overcome he almost... well, he almost.

Since that day they couldn’t stay out of each other’s lives... not that they gave it any effort. Any given part of the girl stopped him cold- on this February Friday she was giving off steam heat to warm him, and tonight he needed her warmth. Sandy was pulse, in harmony, he could feel the blood running through her veins and it was primal: pump. She was the proof he was waiting for, a series of green lights, unfolded origami, steak seared to perfection. Sandra Marianne Cole: the exception to every one of his rules.

He had made the rule just after they met- not to take her to bed. The last thing she needed in her life was another man after her ass, and he had held strong through a lifetime of temptation. It made him ache: there was something about this baby... something. Tom could only shake his head and let himself wonder. The curve of her neck took his eyes on an endless Sunday: picnic at the foothills, champagne at the slopes. The slow golden curls falling from her head dangled, entangled her into him in ways she could never know, couldn’t comprehend.

It was the end of another dirty night for both of them, another sweet taste of their death- and too much taste will kill you. He knew they were safe here- temporarily- and still his gun was clutched sore in his hand. He knew she would try to go back, try to retake her money and some strand of dignity: he knew he couldn’t let her. When she woke up he would tell her what he wanted to, what he had to, what he had been dying to say- driven to- by the pounding of his own human heart. He would use that foul word, if only to shock her, to ruin her like she did him.

Green neons- outside the office window- shown good shine down the brown leather sofa. Sandra turned and- sound asleep- rubbed herself against him, hugging him backwards with her bottom and shoulders. He felt the soft meat of her arm against his chest and something inside him shattered without a sound. He allowed himself to see this alternative to reality, a variation on a theme: the long vacation as an absolute possibility. The house and him inside it, Sandy Cole at the sink wringing out the rag with his ring wrapped around her finger. Just her turning, just the one smile sliding across her sculpted lips, making it all right, making it- it’s bliss- all worthwhile. Peach pie baking in the oven proud, apron draped around her waist, black coffee in the cup- could something dumb be so sublime?

The dream dead, now dying, now back in the box on the shelf, now back to this dimension and his timeline so untidy. Still, Tom took the trip back slow, lingering through over-exposed photographs and the haze of cumming, through the hot fever to tell of the crush and delight, across the scuffed white surface, waffle-board ceilings, through the cloud of smoke and continuity, down the stream of independence, barely looking up her dress, and over the waters, soul in the deep, grace below the surface, love in the dark of night: the longest hour.

Sandy woke up, stretch, yawn and dawn.

She whispered through the smile: “Tom...”

Atari punched her face as hard as he could, blacking her eye and knocking her unconscious.