In That Moment

"You can't save her Paul. You need to understand this. No matter how much you want it to happen, no matter how hard you try to make it happen, you can't stop it. Clara can't be brought back. This is not what I'm offering you. I'm sorry."

Paul sat on the sofa and leaned forward burying his face in his palms. He breathed through his fingers and then sobbed once...but his tears had dried up long ago. He was spent and raw inside. He curled his hands into fists then rapped his knuckles against his forehead, at first with light taps, then with audible, punishing thumps. He wanted to feel something, anything that would jar the blockage in his skull.

Yet there was nothing.

He opened his eyes and stared into the blackness of his living room. He had spent the last twenty-four hours practically unmoving from his sofa. Night had come and gone and come again. Just outside his front door, he had heard the mailman deliver more cards and letters of condolence that he would never bother to read. He had long before yanked his answering machine from the wall and, even if his cell phone hadn't died, he still wouldn't have checked his voice-mail or inbox.

Across the room on a shelf stood a row of picture frames. They were shrouded in shadow cast by the glow of the light that manged to seep into the room through the drawn curtains. Still, Paul could envision the images of the people in the photographs as plain as the days they were taken. They stared through the bleak darkness and right into his heart. He thought he could even hear them whispering to him. Or maybe it was really just him wishing they could whisper to him, tell him some secret to clear his jumbled mind.

He poured himself another glass of wine, the darkness making the red of the Merlot swirl into the glass like oil. He slugged it back. It wouldn't have mattered if he had sipped it; the liquid still would have tasted sour.

With a weary sigh he fell back against the sofa and lolled his head to the side. On the side table, a clock ticked steadily. Paul squinted at it. 11:50.

Michael would be there in ten minutes.

* * * * *

Twenty-four hours earlier...

Paul never was one to pray to angels. He was more interested in tangible things: the sweet taste of fresh grilled sirloin on his tongue, the thrumming vibration of his car around his body, the tender softness of his lover's inner thigh against his hand. Life was about what he could see and touch.

But now he felt like he was falling forever into an endless void, his arms and hands grasping and flailing in the air, nothing to see, nothing to touch, nothing to hold on to. He felt totally lost in a vacuum as he sat by himself on his sofa in the dark.

"Clara". Paul had no need for angels, yet he said her name like a quiet prayer. Even stranger still was his muted response when his prayer was unexpectedly answered.

"Paul," a voice steady and crisp like the wind through the trees called to him.

Paul looked up with a remarkable calmness unexpected of a man confronted by disembodied voice calling his name. Yet he watched in perplexing silence as strands and puffs of white light appeared in the middle of the room as if seeping through a hole in the darkness. They floated and pulled and tangled in the air before him. He felt warmth from their light. Not like the warmth of a fire, though, more like fingers of electricity dancing on his nerves, seizing him to attention. He knew this wasn't dream, yet he didn't feel anything like fear or panic.

As the light continued to ebb and flow in front of him, an unexpected feeling of acceptance settled into Paul. His lips drifted apart and he forced a breath out, uttering the name, "Michael."

Though he must have across the name hundreds of time during his life, it never had any personal significance to him. Yet when faced with something indescribable, when feeling a hungering need to put a frame around an impossible shape, "Michael" was what came to mind.

The entity didn't take any exception to being christened by Paul but instead said, "I know you're hurting."

Paul swallowed and shuddered.

"I know you miss her."

"Oh God, I miss her so much," Paul thought.

"I want to offer you something."

Paul held his breath, a rattling pang of anticipation grinding in his gut.

"I'm giving you the chance to relive a moment with her again."

He didn't care if he was drunk or if he was hallucinating or even if this was just a dream. Paul hung on Michael's every word like it was a rope twisting in a hurricane. He wanted to believe so much. Anxiously he asked, "I can see her again?"

"A moment in your life spent with her," Michael said, his light shifting and curling, "For one hour you can experience it again, be with Clara again."

Clara. When Michael said her name, it was like a spur against Paul's ribs. He sucked in air with a gasp, covering his mouth. His mind whirled. To be with her again, to touch her, to hold her, to smell and taste her...

Paul suddenly sat up, a thought igniting in his head. With a wild look of realization in his eyes, he leaned forward and said, "I could..."

"You can't save her Paul."

Paul froze. He let the words sink in like an injection of ice water into his veins. "I-I can't..." his lips fluttered, "Why?"

"You can't save her Paul," Michael repeated, "You need to understand this. No matter how much you want it to happen, no matter how hard you try to make it happen, you can't stop it."

Each word felt like a hook pulling at his heart. Paul wanted to scream and yell but he couldn't find the words.

"Clara can't be brought back. This is not what I'm offering you. I'm sorry."

Paul sank back against the sofa. In his heart, he knew that he had accepted what he was being told even before Michael finished. He closed his eyes, defeated.

Michael filled the silence with instruction. "I want you to recall every moment you've spent with Clara."

Paul shook his head. "There are so many."

"I know. The strongest, most meaningful ones will stand out though."

Paul opened his eyes and thought for a fleeting second. A door within his mind opened a crack and a sliver of blinding light knifed through. It was overwhelming. Once more he shut his eyes tight. "It hurts too much," he sighed. He relapsed and pleaded, "I just want her back here with me."

"There's nothing you can do, Paul," Michael assured him, "You can warn her. You can take her away from where the accident happens. You can be with her, shield her. Still, she'll be gone and you will be left as empty and hollow as you are now. Worse, you will have wasted this opportunity I'm offering you."

"What opportunity?" Paul asked. "Without Clara, what's the point?"

Paul heard the voice of Michael surround him. "Don't think about the loneliness of this room and trying to fill this space around you. Think of filling the void that's inside of you here."

A sudden warmth swelled within Paul's chest. It filled him completely, lighting up his eyes. He sat up and inhaled deeply as if he were a baby taking his first gasp of fresh air. Just as suddenly, it disappeared. It was a brutal tease on Michael's part, but a necessary one. It left Paul bewildered and cold inside, but it also kindled a thought which he couldn't quite place yet.

"That is what I'm offering you," Michael said.

As Paul stared at the shifting tendrils and mists of light before him, they seemed to settle and focus into one entity, like a candle flame. He nodded slowly once, a sense of understanding stirring in his head for the first time in days.

"What happens now?" Paul asked hesitantly.

"I will come back at midnight tomorrow," Michael replied. "Together, we'll choose a time for you to return to be with Clara."

Again Paul nodded.

With that, the light slowly folded in on itself, collapsing to a pinpoint marble-sized ball before dispersing silently into the darkness.

Paul was left alone once more, in the darkness, the emptiness, and silence. Within moments, hundreds of puzzle pieces of memories of Clara filled his head and swept him below like a violent undertow. His mouth agape and tears finally streaming down his face again, he fell on his side onto the sofa and cried and remembered.

* * * * *

Paul ignores the twigs and branches of the trees and bush snatching at him as he runs through the dark ravine. He is leaving the noise and crowds of the campus behind him. The flood lights from the midnight rally cast him in silhouette but eventually he outruns them as well and soon he is covered only in the grey-blue glow of the full moon above. Despite the darkness, he charges headlong into the tangle of woods, laughing and whooping.

Clara leads him on this chase like a siren. She is also laughing and giggling as she skips and leaps through the woods like the dancer that she is.

The two are filled with a giddy, youthful excitement. It had all started back at the rally with an innocent kiss on Clara's pink cheek, a not so innocent grope of her bottom, an indecent whisper into her ear, and a playful but stiff slap against Paul's head. The pursuit was declared with rascally laughter.

At first, Clara's lithe body and graceful ease through the dark forest gives her a decent lead to start.

"You're disappointing me Paul!" she calls back teasingly.

Paul's running-back instincts kick in and he quickly makes up ground, aggressively driving his way through the clutch of branches around him.

Clara senses that he's coming up fast and suddenly the chase becomes in earnest. Between running and laughing she can't catch her breath. Her heart pounds so hard, she has to swallow to keep it from beating up her throat. Her shoe catches against a twist of undergrowth and she trips, nearly falling into a ditch. Instead she pulls up and stumbles against a large maple tree. She embraces the trunk of the tree, gasping for breath. As soon as she turns, she lets loose a sharp yelp as Paul runs right up to her, inches from her face.

With Clara pinned against the tree, Paul digs his fingers into her belly and sides, tickling her into near hysterics.

"No! No! No!" Clara begs and chokes through her tears of laughter. "Stop! I can't breath!"

"Who's a disappointment? Huh? Who?" Paul probes with a sharp grin.

"Stop! Stop! I give up!"

Paul leans back and cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Clara swallows hard and nods. Even in the dark, her smile glows like a beacon.

Paul burns his gaze into her wide, chestnut eyes. He moves in closer, prowling his face around her, drawn to her like a magnet. He reaches up and tangles his fingers into the tresses of her silky, raven hair, steadying her, urging her attention upon him.

Merely inches apart, they exchange wisps of breath in the cool night air. Clara pulls in her lips and moistens them, glosses them.

On that signal, Paul moves in with a forceful kiss. Her lips are impossibly soft. He inhales deeply, her jasmine scent mixing with the smell of fresh earth and trees to make an unexpectedly potent and arousing concoction.

They linger on the kiss, savouring it. Their next is much more abbreviated and desperate. Soon their lips fold and press quickly in an ungainly tangle of lust. Just as quickly as their arms reach around one another in a bold embrace, so do their tongues dart out and twist and wrestle. Their mouths smack and gasp, the sounds of their fiery desire deadened by the thick foliage surrounding them.

Paul slips his hand beneath her sweater and bra, quickly delighting in the feel of her soft, round breast against his probing fingers. He circles and teases her nipples taut and Clara groans her approval.

Paul becomes distinctly aware of the hardening, swollen sensation below his waist. He takes Clara's small, soft hand and brings it downward, pressing it against his crotch. Her eyes fix upon him as he guides her palm up and down, massaging it along his straining shaft. She doesn't pull back, and when he frees her hand, she continues to rub him to full, unbridled attention.

Their lips lock together once more. Somehow, almost unconsciously, they manage to each undo the clasps on their jeans. Boots and shoes are unceremoniously kicked off and aside, leaving the couple to find steady footing on the wooded ground in only their socks. Paul drops his pants to his ankles and then takes his time to help Clara peel her jeans down her shapely, pale legs and over her feet. Her panties quickly follow.

Paul remains crouching taking a moment to admire the fine line along her clean-shaven crotch, only a moment. He pushes his face into her, pressing his mouth over her and probing his tongue against her folds.

Clara reaches behind her and clutches her hands against the tree trying to steady herself. She shudders and trembles and gasps at every wanton caress of Paul's tongue. She leans hard against the trunk as he reaches behind her, grabs her ripe bottom and pulls her forward. When she feels his tongue breach her petals, she clutches at his head, twisting his hair in her fingers, and groans.

Paul rises to his feet. Again they kiss as his boxers join his pants at his ankles. He feels the cool air curl around his pulsing shaft as he handles it, positions it. With a deft adjustment, he bends his knees and leans into Clara, pushing apart her velvety thighs, and then thrusts upward. Now he is engulfed by her warmth. She welcomes him with a languid moan.

Like a horse on an open range, Paul breaks quickly into rapid, rolling motions of his hips. Clara is both tight and tender, her body giving and responsive.

Clara wraps one hand around the back of his neck, the other at his buttocks as he lifts her from the ground with each fervent thrust. She curls and ankle behind his calf. When she gasps his name, it's like a kick to his backside. Paul responds with stiff, long strokes.

Covering her mouth with his own, he stifles her swelling groans. He grinds his hips into her, driving deeper and deeper. He feels her clamp down on his throbbing length and soon he's ready to burst. His muscles strain and beg for relief.

The desperation and urgency of the moment make it as exhilarating and thrilling as any roller coaster multiplied by ten. Paul never feels more alive and driven.

With one final thrust, he buries himself in Clara. Both of them hold their breaths as they embrace each other, melt into each other.

"Ahh...ahh-unn," Paul moans and shudders. He feels one brief, steady rush of fire through his pulsing shaft followed by shorter surges of delicious relief.

As he fills her completely, Clara quivers and trembles in his arms. She inhales sharply, gasps and bites down on her fist as she comes with a warm, so satisfying release.

Paul feels her flow over him. The dampness spreads onto their legs, chilled by the brisk night air.

With Paul still inside of her, they kiss and hold their embrace. Their easing groans and gasps mingle with the sounds of rustling leaves and crickets. The expanse of forest they are hidden away in seems to collapse around them, the world narrowing its focus on this place, this moment - their first time.

* * * * *

Paul and Clara stumble through the door, laughing. Their halfhearted attempt at Paul carrying her into the suite fails miserably but they barely seem to care. It had been a long day and night already spent with too many family and friends. They love each of them dearly, of course, but they thank every angel and demon that they are rid of them. With an agile kick, the door closes behind them and they may as well have been the only couple in the only suite in the only hotel in the only city in all the world.

Their laughter eases and they face each other, holding each other at the waist and smiling.

Paul has to shake his head as he looks at her. How is it that she can be even more beautiful than she was just a minute before? That was the mystery of Clara that just seemed to tow him a long from moment to moment.

"Mr.Price," Clara says with a curt, playful nod.

"Mrs.Price," Paul says through a curly grin. Mrs.Price. Yes, he likes that very much. "Would you care for a night cap?"

Clara rolls her twinkling eyes. "Sure," she says. She gives him a kiss then adds, "But maybe afterwards."

Paul watches as she slowly backs away from him, a sharp grin angling upward to her flush cheeks. He angles his brow and asks, "Afterwards?"

As she reaches behind her back and unzips her evening dress, she shrugs. "Yes," she teases. "Why? Don't think you have much stamina left after all that dancing and shots with your groomsmen?"

He follows her as she leads him into bedroom. Suddenly, he remembers just how uncomfortable and stiff his tuxedo and shoes really are. He starts to remove them as Clara nudges him with her fingertips down onto the edge of the bed.

Paul continues to undo the buttons on his shirt, but does so mindlessly. His attention is fully set upon the blushing bride swaying over him, slinking out of her dress like the naughtiest stripper in Vegas.

Stepping out of her dress, Clara poses and holds it between her fingers off to the side for second then lets it fall to the ground.

Paul hasn't moved for the last few seconds, his fingers in a holding pattern at one of his shirt buttons. He's totally transfixed by the vixen, Mrs.Price, standing in front of him. He watches as she holds her sheer lace bra with her forearm while reaching back and undoing the clasp of it with her other hand. Still covering her breasts, she performs a little swivel-shrug and the straps slip off of her shoulders.

Paul hopes he isn't drooling, because there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do about it if he was.

Clara drops her arm, letting her bra slide down and off, revealing the smooth curves of her white breasts. She stands tall before Paul, in her white heels, panties, garter and stockings.

"Holy shit," Paul mutters, his lips barely moving. He shifts his seat in the bed, suddenly and painfully aware of the immense pressure building beneath the crotch of his stiff slacks.

As if reading his mind, or perhaps the contorting look on his face, Clara asks, "Would you like me to help you with that, Mr.Price?"

Clara's lithe, seductive figure curls down as she kneels on the plush carpet. It takes little effort on for either of them to push apart Paul's legs. She's already moistening her ruby glossed lips as reaches for his fly. With the pressure coming from behind it, it practically unzips itself.

Paul braces his arms behind him as he shifts on the bed. He breathes through his mouth, grinding his teeth together as Clara helps him ease his pants down and over his feet. His briefs are tented upward from beneath, but he's soon free of it as well.

Clara grins and offers him a cat-like purr as she takes him up in her tender hand. She gently strokes her palm and fingers over him, stoking his piece to a rigid length. Her slender pink tongue slides out as she leans in and licks him from his sack to his tip and then back down again.

Paul's head drifts back momentarily as she caresses the tip of her tongue against his sack. He listens to her muted gasps and licks. The strain in his swollen shaft is enough to elicit a frown on his face. Every time she did this, it was like a fresh reminder of just how incredible Clara was at it.

"Unn," Paul groans as Clara finally takes him into her soft, wet mouth.

She sinks over him with a gliding stroke of her plush lips. Withdrawing from a moment with soft 'pop' and breathy gasp, she throws her mouth onto him again, spiking his tip against the back of her throat. She holds it there, revels in the feel of his pulse in her mouth, then slowly begins her bobbing motions, sucking on his length with a steady rhythm.