He stayed with her throughout that night. He didn’t think they could peel him out of the bed if they tried. She curled herself into him, her head on his chest, her hands on his arm. It was the sweetest thing to be loved by somebody even when they are broken themselves.
She woke off and on, and the dreams had returned. Sometimes she would talk in her sleep, something that was becoming more and more interesting. Instead of nightmares, she would sometimes refer to a “Mr. Goodlooking” and flirt with him. He wondered if she was reliving some of their conversations early on when she would jog past his house. He hoped so. She was happy in these dreams. Not afraid or desperate as she was in the others.
She woke from one particularly fun dream, one that kept him entertained for a good two minutes, and he couldn’t help himself. He teased her, “Who is this Mr. Goodlooking you are always talking to?”
The blush returned to her neck and creeped up to her cheeks. He liked that color on her, much better than the rainbows and bruises that covered her face the first few days in her coma. He liked putting it there.
She met his challenge and simply said, “You, before I knew what your name was.”
“Good thing, or else I might have been a little jealous” he said with a wink. “So you like when I wear jeans, huh?” The blush intensified, but she just smiled big and nodded.
“I like those jeans” she said, continuing the playful banter. “The ones you have on. However, whenever I see you in them, I have this terrible urge to rip them off of you. Such contradictory desires.”
He liked this. She was still here. She didn’t hate him yet. She looked up at him and asked, “When was the last time you ate?”
He remembered asking her this question not so long ago. He mimicked her answer, “It’s been a while.”
She seemed to recall this, and her eyebrows shot up mockingly chastising him. “Tell me, and you had better not say it doesn’t matter.”
He gave out a laugh, “Well, maybe Wednesday?”
“Wednesday! Really, Wednesday!!” she joked on. Then she asked him seriously, “Seriously though, when was the last time you ate?”
“The last time you did.”
“By God mister,” her playful tone returning, “if you don’t put some food in that red hot body of yours, I swear I’m gonna have to take you over my knee.”
“Is that so?” he teased. “I’d much rather have you over my knee, that perky ass of yours begging to be touched. Or under me, or over me, or however you’d take me.” Her eyes met his with the same intensity, the red hot heat of lust.
He quickly changed subject before he embarrassed himself here on the hospital bed. “You gotta eat so they’ll let you out of here. I miss that sweet ass of yours, too.”
As if on cue, a nurse came in with a tray of food. They shared it, knowing neither had the capacity for a full meal, and she asked to be released.