you some hope of second chances?
Meringues! We both loved the vanilla meringues at Strohecker’s.
What is left?
A single mother, alone in the middle of the night (doors locked, alarm system armed!) in what was the house of our dreams, that I won’t be able to afford once I pull the trigger, hit send on this e-mail.
And of course, my coffee-and-cream-skinned boy, six and a half weeks old, ten fat little fingers that close around my thumb, simply sighs as he polishes off a bottle and then tucks his hands over that kissable Buddha belly of his. A boy already twice abandoned. A boy who, after kicking his nicotine addiction, has become my sunny-son, who already grins when I lift him out of his crib, who waits for me, not crying, just waits, each morning, as though his life doesn’t start until mine does. Easy as a melody, my son—
Francie stops; she cannot swallow, a lump like a whole roasted chestnut lodged in her throat.
[SELECT ALL, DELETE]
She types:
From: [email protected]
Subject: You nearsighted, gimp-legged sonofabitch
Date: Jan 20, 2001 3:14:37 AM EDT
I believe these belong to you, from the autocomplete on my computer, when browsing for stroller rating sites, your History:
[SELECT ALL, COPY, PASTE]
S—
Sexy Asian teens
Singapore bridal services
Singapore bride connection
Singapore match services
My attorney, Larry Steinfield, Esq., 503-DIV-ORCE, awaits your call.
[SEND]
30
Sunday Dreams
PAUL
I feel her before I see her, a magnetic draw, a smell, and she’s biting my neck, hot, like a bitch in heat, I think, pushing her back against the cinderblock wall, her faded red sweatshirt, HOT STICK it says over the left tit, and I am, I am one hot throbbing stick…
“You wore this to the agency picnic,” I say, but it doesn’t sound stupid. “When I first met you. I wanted you then.”
“Mm-hmm.” She unzips it, nothing underneath but perfect teardrop breasts, two halves of a ripe jumbo avocado, and I cup them, because she wants me to, wants me to bang her standing right up against the hospital wall, grinding against me in her jeans, her flat, Dallas-cheerleader stomach against my cock, the belly button with the little blond hairs around it that I’ve kissed a thousand times, no, wrong body, wrong girl, and she’s leaning into my neck, hot warm breath, “Hurry,” she says.
“Baby…,” I whisper.
A baby is crying, there is the usual urgency, get this done before the baby really gets going, and I’ve got it out, ready, and I look over her shoulder, past that smooth golden hair, through the glass window into the nursery, where I heard the crying, and it is empty, rows and rows of empty plastic cribs, the babies are gone and I don’t give a damn, I think as I use my knee to scissor open her creamy thighs—
PAUL STARTLES. HIS BIG-EYED son’s head is bobbling, turtling up off his chest, a puddle of drool and white cheesy spit-up on his chin, on the collar of Paul’s T-shirt and his neck, cooling and wet on his hot skin.
“Hey,” Paul whispers. Magnus is across the room, head thrown back, sleeping in the rocker; a gargling snore catches in his throat. Paul checks the TV; the Ravens have scored, but who cares about the Super Bowl? Paul squints at his brother-in-law; he’s not even watching, but the TV’s got to be on all the time. “Mind if I find a game, man?” Magnus always says, with the remote, Paul’s remote, already in his hand.
Paul wraps an arm around his son, cupping the stem of his neck to steady him as he swings his legs to the side of the couch. He stands, clutching Wyeth against his chest. Magnus blinks, straightens, moves the sports section off his lap.
“Did I doze off?”
“You guys all looked so sweet in here,” Eva says from the stairs, the lens of the Nikon resting in the V of her thumb and index finger. “I took a picture.” Then she and Magnus both look right at, but do not comment on, Paul’s giant boner.
She follows him upstairs.
“So…” She sits down on their bed. Paul hands Wyeth to her, and before the baby even opens his mouth, in one motion she has her shirt up and her bra open, wedging him on the boob. The baby looks surprised but pleased, latching on. Lucky, Paul thinks as he goes to the closet for a clean shirt.
Outside the windows, it is already dark, the afternoon gone. He should have at least gone to the Sandy job, checked in, but now the day is over, a