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beautiful.
"I've lost my memory, but not my ability to see what's in front of me,"
he said.
"A dinky-di bit of flattery, that."
"Flsttery? That's like a lie, isn't it?"
"
" A friendly lie. "
He sat quietly as she finished his back. Without words between them,
he could simply enjoy the feel of what she was doing to him. And what
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she was doing was remarkable -His skin hurt, and even as she touched
it, the hurt continued. But the feel of her hands against his flesh,
even with the rag intervening, was also a great comfort.
And more. Her touch both cooled and warmed him. The paradox was
baffling, yet his body was living proof it existed He didn't want the
pain to continue, but he wanted the movement of her hands to continue
forever. " " I'm finished with your back. Shall I do your chest? Or
would you rather? "
"I'd like you to: Something shifted between them, a subtle change in
the air. He knew she needed an explanation of some sort. He chose one
of the many that presented themselves. " You can reach places I'd have
trouble with. "
"Right-o." Mackenzie got up to mix more solution; then she moved
around to kneel in front of him. He sat cross legged , like a Hindu
guru, or was it a Buddhist monk? Whichever, he seemed perfectly at
home, as if he could sit that way, utterly motionless, forever.
"Small consolation, I suppose," she said, "but the sunburn 's not as
bad as it was yesterday. It's fading in spots."
He wondered how he would feel when it disappeared. Would he still feel
each movement, perceive his boundaries in the same way? "What will
happen when we get to your home? " he asked.
"What do you want to happen?" "
" I don't know. "
"I should think you'd want your memory back, first thing."
"What if my memories aren't good ones?" "
" Do you feel they might not be? "
He considered. He could feel the cloth, cool and provocative , moving
along his right shoulder. He fixed his gaze on Mackenzie's face. Her
lips were pursed, as if she was doing something that required great
precision.
He wanted to try her lips against his. The thought came out of
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nowhere, yet it seemed the most natural one in the world.
A kiss. His lips against hers. That was what the action was called.
He tried to imagine what it would feel like; he wondered if he knew. "
" Patrick? "
He remembered her question. "I don't know," he said. " " Are your
memories good or bad? " " "Good, mostly."
"But there are bad ones, too?"
She listened carefully to his inflection. Yes, he had asked a
question. He wasn't pretending to know.. probably. "I remember my
mother dying," she said.
Something twisted inside him. He swallowed, but it wouldn't go away.
He felt a surge of such sorrow that he could hardly breathe.
"She was young, and she always smelled like violets. I didn't know
that until later, you see. Not until I smelled violets at a flower
stall in Sydney on a school outing. Then I , realized." Mackenzie
wondered why she was telling Patrick this. It was the hut, she
supposed, and the damnable wailing wind. It mimicked the sound of
mourning. She could almost hear her own childish sobbing in each
ghostly shriek and moan.
"You were very sad when she died."
"Very." She wet her rag again and stared past him at the wall, which
was buckling under the wind's assault. "But then I came to Waluwara.
There's been nothing to be sad about here."
She wasn't telling the whole truth, but already Patrick had learned
enough not to point that out. "My memories will be the same, I
suppose," he said. "Sad ones. Better ones."
"Since you're human, too, that's bound to be the way it is.
"Will this be a good or a bad memory for you?"
She brought her gaze, and her attention, to him. "This?"
".I.his. Our time here."
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She frowned. "I don't know. It's not over yet, is it?"
"
" You are my first memory. "
"Pardon?"
"My first memory. I have no memories except of you: '
Try as she might, she could not lower her eyes. His were blue, a
straight-up-to-the-heavens blue that threatened to suck her into
awareness, even into an eternity, that she wasn't ready for. " " I
have other memories, " she said.
He bent his head forward. Until the briefest moment before he kissed
her, she could still see his eyes. Then they closed. Hers closed,
too, and she felt his lips against hers. the kiss was both a surprise
and a certainty. She could not move away. She was as trapped by him
as if he had wrapped her in bands of steel. She couldn't breathe, she
couldn't think. She could only yearn and, in her yearning, press her
lips harder against his.
She had been kissed before, but never had she felt this unity with a
man. Somewhere between his lips and hers, she had lost a piece of
herself.
Unnerved, but unable to resist, she turned her head a little to savor
the sensation. His lips parted, and she sighed against them. His hand
settled on her hair, and his fingers wove through it to caress the back
of her neck. His lips took up the same rhythm, pulsing in time to her
heartbeat until she was convinced he had somehow become a part of her
and knew her body as he knew his own.
He was the first to draw away. She stared at him and found his eyes
were still every bit as depthless and un shadowed
She thought of a thousand important things to say and said none of
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