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“I’ll have to fuck you again and again for being such a bad girl.”
He bites my side as his hands passionately squeeze my waist and he makes me his own again and again.
“Arch your hips for me ... More ... more ... ,” he demands, grabbing my hair.
He gives me a slap that echoes through the pool room. I gasp. I do what he asks. I bow, and he plunges deeper into me. What he’s doing pleases me, and my moans tumble around the room while, suspended in the hammock, I come and come before my love’s strong and wonderful attacks. An hour later, drained, we go to our room. We have to rest.
In the morning, when I get up and go downstairs to the kitchen, Simona informs me Eric hasn’t gone to work and is in his office. Surprised, I go find him. As soon as I open the door and see his face, I know something’s wrong.
I’m scared.
“Jude, call Marta.”
Quickly, I do what he says.
I’m trembling.
Eric, my strong and tough Iceman, is suffering. I can see it in the tension on his face. In his red-rimmed eyes. I want to be near him. I want to kiss him. Pamper him. I want to tell him not to worry. But Eric doesn’t want any of that. He asks me to leave him alone. I respect what he needs and stay in the background.
Half an hour later, Marta arrives. She’s carrying her medical case. When she sees the state I’m in, she asks me to calm down. I try. She examines her brother carefully before my watchful eye. Eric isn’t a good patient and complains the whole time. He’s unbearable.
Marta, unperturbed by his grunting, sits right in front of him.
“Your optic nerve is worse. You have to go back to the operating room.”
Eric curses. Groans. He doesn’t look at me.
“I told you this could happen,” Marta says calmly. “You knew it. You need to start the treatment so we can do the trabecular microbypass.”
Hearing this makes me mad. He hasn’t said a word to me at all about this, nothing at all. But I don’t want to argue. It’s not the time. He has enough to deal with already. But, wanting to join the conversation, I ask, “What is the treatment?”
Marta explains. Eric doesn’t look at me.
“Very well then,” I say confidently. “You’ll say when we can start.”
23
As expected, Eric is even more unbearable during the treatment. A real tyrant. He doesn’t want to do anything he’s supposed to and complains day in and day out. Because I know him, I don’t take him seriously, although at times I feel an uncontrollable urge to push his head into the pool and not let him come back up.
During this time, Marta talks to several specialists. She, of course, wants the best for her brother and keeps me posted on everything. The eye drops Eric has to use wreck him. His head hurts, his stomach churns, and he can’t see very well. He’s overwhelmed.
“Again?” he protests.
“Yes, love, time for the drops again,” I say.
He curses, but when he sees I’m not going away, he sits down, and, after a long sigh, he lets me treat his eyes.
They’re red rimmed. Too red. Their blue is faded. I’m scared. But I don’t let him see just how scared I am. I don’t want him to be even more overwhelmed. He’s scared too. He doesn’t say anything, but his fury lets me know just how terrified he is of his condition.
It’s night, and the darkness of our room envelops us. I can’t sleep. He can’t either.
“Jude, my illness is getting worse. What are you going to do?” he asks, surprising me. I know what he means. Sometimes I get very tired of wanting to smack him for allowing himself to think such nonsense.
“For the moment, I’m going to kiss you,” I say, turning toward him in the dark.
I kiss him, and when my head is back on the pillow, I add, “And, of course, keep on loving you the same way I love you right now, darling.”
We stay quiet for a while.