Page 160 of I Am the Messenger

"What are you--"

My shirt feels like cement. I wear wooden jeans, sandpaper socks, and anvil shoes.

"I'm here," I whisper, "for you."

Audrey, the girl, the woman, is in a pink nightie.

She opens the door and stands barefoot, removing some sleep from her eye with her fist. She reminds me of the little girl Angelina.

Slowly, I take her hand and bring her out onto the path. The heaviness has left me now, and it's just her and me. I place the radio in the bark-spattered garden, crouch down, and press play.

At first, a moderate static rustles through the air. Then the music begins and we can both hear the slow, quiet, sweet desperation of a song I won't mention. Imagine the softest, toughest, most beautiful song you know, and you've got it. We breathe it in and my eyes hook with Audrey's.

I walk closer and hold her hands.

"Ed, what--"

"Shh."

I hold her close now around her hips and she holds me back.

She places her hands around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. I can smell the sex on her, and my only hope is that she can smell the love on me.

The music hits low.

The voice reaches high.

It's the music of hearts again--but much better this time--and we move and turn, and Audrey's breath places itself on my neck. "Mmm," she moans gently, and we dance on the path. We hold each other. At one point, I let go and twirl her slowly. She comes back and it's a small, small kiss she gives me on the neck when she returns.

I love you, I feel like saying, but there's no need for that.

The sky flows with fire, and I'm dancing with Audrey. Even when the song ends, we hold on a little longer, and I think it's about three minutes we danced for.

Three minutes to tell her I love her.

Three minutes for her to admit she loves me back.

She tells me when we let go, but no words of love exit her mouth. She just kind of closes one eye at me and says, "Well, Ed Kennedy, huh?"

I smile.

She points her finger. "But only you, though, right?"

"Right," I agree. I stare at Audrey's bare feet, her ankles, her shins, then make my way up to her face. I take a photo of her in my mind. Her tired eyes and morning mucked-up hair the color of straw. The smile gently scratching her lips. Her small ears and smooth nose. And the last remnants of love, holding strangely on....

She let herself love me for three minutes.

Can three minutes last forever? I ask myself, but already I know the answer.

Probably not, I reply. But maybe they last long enough.

I pick up the radio and we stand for a little while longer. She doesn't invite me in, and I don't ask.

What needed to be done was done, so I turn and say, "Well, I'll see you, Audrey. Maybe at the next card game. Maybe before."

"Soon," she assures me, and with the radio tucked back under my arm, I begin the walk home.

Twelve messages have been delivered.