theorizing. At the very least, I like to hear your voice
and watch your lips twist around when you’re trying to get your mind around an idea.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Totally,” he said with another smile. “But you like me this way, so keep going. Please.”
“Oh, all right. It sounds stupid now that we’ve lost track of what was really just
a little aside. But here’s the thing: by saying I just want someone for x, y, or z
it’s like you are totally denying that they are a whole person. They are just some
object. A tool.”
Hank tapped the steering wheel for a few minutes. Thinking. Finally he started talking.
“But. Now hear me out. Sometimes you need a tool. I use very specific tools on my
job. There are very specific wrenches and gauges and valves and—”
“But those are objects!” Maddie said over a laugh.
His smirky, wide-eyed look silenced her. “May I finish?”
“Yes,” she said, chastised.
“And sometimes people want to be used like that. To be taken in hand.”
Oh, Jesus. He did it again. The slow, deep, suggestive, this-means-nothing, this-means-everything
voice. Maddie felt like she might melt right into the seat of the car.
“Yeah? And?” She tried to sound blasé.
“Yeah and nothing. It’s just a fact. I think people sometimes just want the cigar.
It doesn’t need to be all Freudian and meaningful. It can be great and not be attached
to everything that ever happened in the universe. It can just be a thing.”
“Eloquent.” Maddie sneered.
“ Preach not to others what they should eat, but eat as becomes you and be silent. ”
She stared at him. “Picked up a little Epictetus in the Middle East, did you?”
“Something like that.” He put his elbow on the edge of his window and looked peevish.
“Something like what? Where did you get the philosophy degree, and why do you act
all anti-intellectual and then go and quote Epictetus to me?”
“West Point.” He barely said it loud enough.
“Yeah right.” Maddie inhaled to laugh and then realized he was serious. “You went
to West Point? How? When? I thought you enlisted on your eighteenth birthday.”
He looked at her and narrowed his eyes. “My mother been singing my praises to you?”
“Something like that.” Maddie smirked back and tried to ignore him. Why would he act
all gruff and dumb when he had a degree from West Point?
He rolled up the window and turned the air-conditioning on. “Sorry. It’s getting too
windy. It’s giving me a headache.” A negative side effect of being in the water for
so many hours a day, Hank’s ears pretty much always bothered him.
“That’s fine.” Maddie rested her hands on her lap. She figured if he wanted to tell
her about West Point or any other secret facts about himself, he could do so of his
own accord. She wasn’t going to pry around like some desperate . . . person.
After listening to the radio for a couple of songs, Maddie started to feel sleepy.
“Do you mind if I crash for a few minutes?”
He turned to look at her. “Sure. Are you tired? I thought you went to bed early last
night?”
“Very funny. I couldn’t sleep a wink knowing you were naked in your bed a few feet
away.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t care if I hurt your feelings, Madison Post,
you are a hussy.”
She started laughing softly as she nestled her cheek against the front seat. “You’re
probably right. If wanting you makes me a hussy.” Her eyes were closed when she said
it, and Hank had to force himself to breathe evenly.
How could she just say everything like that? At some point in Henry’s childhood, he
had missed that whole chapter on expressing your feelings clearly. Or at all. Maddie
just blurted everything flat out. I like you. I want you. You are hot. You are cool.
Hank felt like he was always standing on trial, in the dock, being interrogated, on
the record, making it count. He was such a liar
and watch your lips twist around when you’re trying to get your mind around an idea.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Totally,” he said with another smile. “But you like me this way, so keep going. Please.”
“Oh, all right. It sounds stupid now that we’ve lost track of what was really just
a little aside. But here’s the thing: by saying I just want someone for x, y, or z
it’s like you are totally denying that they are a whole person. They are just some
object. A tool.”
Hank tapped the steering wheel for a few minutes. Thinking. Finally he started talking.
“But. Now hear me out. Sometimes you need a tool. I use very specific tools on my
job. There are very specific wrenches and gauges and valves and—”
“But those are objects!” Maddie said over a laugh.
His smirky, wide-eyed look silenced her. “May I finish?”
“Yes,” she said, chastised.
“And sometimes people want to be used like that. To be taken in hand.”
Oh, Jesus. He did it again. The slow, deep, suggestive, this-means-nothing, this-means-everything
voice. Maddie felt like she might melt right into the seat of the car.
“Yeah? And?” She tried to sound blasé.
“Yeah and nothing. It’s just a fact. I think people sometimes just want the cigar.
It doesn’t need to be all Freudian and meaningful. It can be great and not be attached
to everything that ever happened in the universe. It can just be a thing.”
“Eloquent.” Maddie sneered.
“ Preach not to others what they should eat, but eat as becomes you and be silent. ”
She stared at him. “Picked up a little Epictetus in the Middle East, did you?”
“Something like that.” He put his elbow on the edge of his window and looked peevish.
“Something like what? Where did you get the philosophy degree, and why do you act
all anti-intellectual and then go and quote Epictetus to me?”
“West Point.” He barely said it loud enough.
“Yeah right.” Maddie inhaled to laugh and then realized he was serious. “You went
to West Point? How? When? I thought you enlisted on your eighteenth birthday.”
He looked at her and narrowed his eyes. “My mother been singing my praises to you?”
“Something like that.” Maddie smirked back and tried to ignore him. Why would he act
all gruff and dumb when he had a degree from West Point?
He rolled up the window and turned the air-conditioning on. “Sorry. It’s getting too
windy. It’s giving me a headache.” A negative side effect of being in the water for
so many hours a day, Hank’s ears pretty much always bothered him.
“That’s fine.” Maddie rested her hands on her lap. She figured if he wanted to tell
her about West Point or any other secret facts about himself, he could do so of his
own accord. She wasn’t going to pry around like some desperate . . . person.
After listening to the radio for a couple of songs, Maddie started to feel sleepy.
“Do you mind if I crash for a few minutes?”
He turned to look at her. “Sure. Are you tired? I thought you went to bed early last
night?”
“Very funny. I couldn’t sleep a wink knowing you were naked in your bed a few feet
away.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t care if I hurt your feelings, Madison Post,
you are a hussy.”
She started laughing softly as she nestled her cheek against the front seat. “You’re
probably right. If wanting you makes me a hussy.” Her eyes were closed when she said
it, and Hank had to force himself to breathe evenly.
How could she just say everything like that? At some point in Henry’s childhood, he
had missed that whole chapter on expressing your feelings clearly. Or at all. Maddie
just blurted everything flat out. I like you. I want you. You are hot. You are cool.
Hank felt like he was always standing on trial, in the dock, being interrogated, on
the record, making it count. He was such a liar
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