Page 56 of All Your Days
I don’t know how long it’s been since we’ve eaten and my stomach is begging for something to fill it. Eli set up the trailer so we could get to the food if we needed it, but I’m pretty sure we were too wrapped up in each other to stop. All the food’s in the trailer with Eli, and hungry as I am now, I don’t want to wake him, so I put up with my growling stomach and keep filling the basin. It’s nearly full with its third billycan of boiling water when the trailer door screeches and Eli tumbles to the dirt.
“Ow, fuck!” He curses up a storm, banging himself on the step when he tries to stand up.
Hastily putting down the billy, I rush over to help him, my heart nearly bursting out my chest at the sight of him. His pants are on, but just barely. They are undone, revealing the nest of brown hair and root of his dick.
And his bruises. Fuck. He’s covered in them. From my mouth, my fingers and just how aggressive we got in the heat of the madness.
The sight of them—some dark purple, others a mottled yellow—stops me in my tracks.
“Fuck. Sorry Eli.”
He’s confused about my apology, scrubbing at his face and his stringy hair.
“What? What? Why?” He tries to ask but it’s too much. Finally, he follows the line of my eyes to his chest. “Whoa. We, uh. We really went at it, didn’t we?”
His cheeks flame in a blush that goes all the way down his neck nearly to his stomach. He only just seems to notice that I’m just as undressed as he is. His eyes dance over my bare chest, his lip finding its way between his teeth.
Does he regret it? God, what if he does? We were both at the mercy of the virus—that doesn’t mean that in the cold light of day he thinks it was a good thing. The last time we were together I was a total dickhead about it.
“Uh, yeah. You okay?” Somehow, I keep my voice even.
“Yeah—yeah.” He inhales sharply through his nose and gives me a tight, cautious smile. “Hungry, though.”
I laugh—it’s not in the least bit funny, but I laugh. I’ll claim it as the last dregs of the madness.
“Right, same. Why don’t you clean yourself up and I’ll get breakfast on?” I wave at the steaming basin of water next to me.
“No, you already got all this ready. Let me—” Eli’s hand flutters around as he speaks. He seems exhausted and weak. Flustered, too, like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.
It makes me want to wrap him up and force him to drink tea and eat until he’s feeling better. Well, maybe after he’s had a wash. And I’m more than willing to do that for him, too. I just don’t think that’s going to help him get healed and hydrated.
“It’s not a worry. Just get yourself clean. I’ll wash up when the food’s heatin’.”
And so that’s what we do. For my own sanity I keep my eyes on the food while he washes. Apparently, canned stew needs an excessive amount of stirring. Keeps it from burning on the bottom of the pot. Or at least, that’s my excuse.
He keeps his eyes just as focused anywhere else but me when I strip off to clean myself. With the rag and scrap of soap, it feels like a useless task. The grime of the past few days is a part of me now. I even wash my hair. It’s not a choice—it’s a need. It’s knotted into a hard mass, glued together with I don’t even want to know what.
“How is it?” When I’m done getting clean, I approach Eli cautiously—kind of like I would an injured wild animal—letting my boots make a lot of sound on my approach to the campfire.
I sit my arse down on the rock next to him, picking up my bowl. We’re close enough that our elbows bump when I settle in. I’ve never considered how intimate it is to eat with someone. Maybe because we’re always doing it in groups, either in the cafeteria or around the campfire.
It feels nice, kinda homey. Like we’re connected.
Fuck, the Rains really did do a number on me. They’ve turned my brain into sugary goop. Next thing I know I’ll be carving hearts with our names inside on all the trees we pass.
“‘Eh. It’s stew. It’s almost as bad as Kimberley’s roasts back home.” He says around a mouthful of food. For someone who doesn’t like it, he’s shoveling it into his mouth with impressive speed.
“Yeah, nah, I don’t know about that. Kimberley’s roasts are foul. Always burnt on the outside and raw in the middle.” Between Kimberley and Gracie I sometimes think they’re purposefully getting the grunts who can’t cook in the kitchens, just so we don’t complain in the lean times when things get really shit.
“Yeah, I’m just sick of eatin’ slop from a jar.” To prove his point he scoops up a heap of meat and vegetables in the murky, reddish brown gravy and then tips it back into his bowl. The gravy splatters when the chunks make contact.
“Yeah, it can suck at the end of the trip. But just think about how good everythin’s gonna taste when you get home. Even Kimberley’s roast will taste like the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.”
I elbow him playfully, winking as I shove a spoonful into my mouth. He snickers along with me.
“I’ve never heard you say that before.” He says quietly when we’re done being childish, jabbing his spoon at his bowl.
“What? Kimberley’s roast?”
