Reassuring. Gentle. Loving. Very touching. So, what else could I
do but fall asleep in his arms, with my hand on his just-hairy-enough chest,
breathing in his familiar scent.
“Good morning, sweetheart. I'm so glad to see you're feeling
better this morning. Why don't I make us some coffee? Okay?”
I nod as I put on the pink robe I find at the foot of the bed to
cover myself. Wow! All this sweet talk and he makes coffee, too? He got up,
unfolding a tall, slim, very attractive body. I watch his perfect naked body
walk over to the coffee pot in the entryway, rethinking my 'Hey, Bozo' speech. Soon
I heard the puffing and dripping of a coffeemaker.
“Yes, I do feel better,” I agree with him, “but how did you
know?”
He lets out a squeaky laugh while putting on his robe. Damn.
“Easy. You didn't scream at me at the top of your lungs, or call
me ‘Buddy,’ or the more gangster-like version ‘Buster,’ or my absolute all-time
favorite morning insult, the clownish ‘Bozo.’ And you didn’t order me to get
the hell out of here, as you gestured toward the door like a demented flight
attendant during the emergency drill on the flight to hell. You didn’t tell me
to leave you alone. And you didn’t threaten me with legal action.”
“Legal action?”
“To get our marriage annulled.”
“Oh.” I nod. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay. I understand,” he beams a gorgeous smile at me. “I'm
just so happy you're feeling better.” He brings me a cup of coffee. “Here,
Love, it’s your favorite blend.”
“Thank you.” I have a favorite blend? Since when? I took a sip. “This is really good,” I
say, pointing to the cup.
“Yeah, well, about that. I feel fine, but I don't really, um,
remember. Anything.”
“I know,” he says, looking down at the floor.
“No. No, I don’t think you do. It’s not that I simply don’t
remember where we met or what we did last night. I don't remember how I got
here. I don’t remember where I work, or what I'm driving these days.”
“I know,” he repeats softly.
“No. NO! It gets even worse. I don't know who I am, and I sure
as hell don't know who you are.”
“I know,” he says on the brink of tears. He holds his arms open.
“Come here, Sweetheart. At least this morning you don't think I'm some bad guy.
At least today you know that I'm your husband. And you know you're safe when
you’re with me, and you know I won't ever let anything bad happen to you.”
“Anything else!” I snarl at him. He puts his head down.
“Yes, Love, anything else.” He put his arms down, realizing I’m
not coming to him for comfort, the comfort he probably needed as much as I do,
maybe more. But I can’t let myself feel sorry for him until I know exactly what
happened to me.
“So. Who the hell am I?” I blurt out coldly.
“You are Samantha Hannery Blake. You are my wife, Sam.”
“Bullshit!” I shout at him. “If I were married to you, I'd know
it. Sam? My name is Sam? No.”
“Okay, now calm down. Our doctor is coming to check you out. He
should be here very soon, any minute. Maybe he can explain it to you better
than I can. Come on, babe, try to relax. You want to be calm when he gets here.
Calm. So we can go home. Okay? Wait a minute!” he said, moving in to hug me.
I think about pulling away from him, but I don’t.
“Was there a veiled compliment in there somewhere?” He smiled
shyly, blushing a little. “I think there was!” I couldn’t help but smile.
“Aha, I knew it,” he teases me. “You rather like me, don’t you? Come
on, admit it! A little tiny bit? Maybe? Hmm?” He holds me in his arms. “Oh,
this feels so good!” He kisses the top of my head loudly. “Everything’s going
to be okay, I promise you.” He guides me over to the table and chairs by the
window.
2.
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