Disclaimer: There's an itch that I can only seem to scratch here, because I don't own PotF.
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The F-Word – Chapter Ten – "In the Fortunate Light of Truth"
or
"The Seven-Year Itch"-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
... Suggested by Jul ...
The morning wake up song softly trumpeted in The Big Day. Niccolò Paganini's One String. She moaned. She never liked being awakened from a good dream. She made the effort to remember it before it forever evaded her grasp. There was ...
Slowly, reluctantly, like lifting the heavy lid off of a jewelry case, her eyelids raced one another to pry themselves open. There was her secret treasure before her eyes.
It had been a good year in the housing market, resulting in her mom wanting to spend more time with her only child, leaving less time for hubby. Mind you, mother did pick up vibes from her offspring of the need for some alone time, so Mom was still visiting an old classmate this week, and her daughter then took full advantage of spending the night in their love nest.
Saturday was to be the big day, the walk to their park in the light of day, so she was glad to have slept the night with him so they could give one another support for the day to come. They both had been having nightmares off and on lately. Bits 'n' pieces of which were all that he said that he recalled, except for the image of a CCC agent going through his old house's hallway bathroom and picking up the purple toothbrush out of the rack from all the others and studying his chicken scratching of her name inscribed on the handle from a wood screw's tip he had found handy. Thoughts like this, about things that she had no control over, haunted her now and then, but all of a sudden, they were making themselves right at home in her mind. How to evict them
puzzled her.
Her chin rubbed and rubbed against his left kneecap. They had tried lots of beds: gel, water, air, levitation, Airogel, sense-o-round, mattresses from the past, beds from the future, sleep furniture from every continent, and even a few islands and ships. It came down to this: like macaroni and cheese, there was nothing so comforting as the kind of mattress that you slept on as a kid. Spring. As far as conforming to their every curve, well, that was a matter of teamwork. Part of the fun. She tested her teeth on the soft sensitive skin below his knee.
"Yow! I'm awake!"
"I know. I always know when you're faking."
"Vampire. I married a sneaky, upside-down sleeping, blood sucking, press card carrying member of the undead."
"Hey, I'm not the one here who hasn't been out in the sun in ages, Mr. Pasty."
He rubbed his knee, and with his face trying to paint the illusion of his feelings being hurt: "I'm just running a little light because of your addiction to my AB negative. You're still a sneaky bloodsucker. Maybe you should try a twelve-step program; that, or I'm going to start munching on raw garlic." She hissed, showing her teeth, and went after the injured site once more. He feigned a wince while she kissed it and made it all better.
"Come on, time to get up," encourages his sleeping buddy, rising on her own to demonstrate how easy it is.
"Ten more minutes?"
She ignored him.
"This side of the bed is still warm."
That earned him a look of exasperation.
"Don't I even get a kiss first?"
Even though she had definitely planted one on his knee, she rounded the bed and granted him two more. "There, that's one for getting up and helping me with breakfast." He gave her a look that told her that he wasn't done listening. "Number two is for being brave today." Pausing for a moment, knowing that he already understood, she declared without faltering, "I'm sorry that I haven't been able to be here more often. I've missed you." Glances are exchanged that would break your heart. "Now, up, Lazybones! It's pecan waffles for breakfast; you can go pick the oranges."
He reached for his white dress shirt; too slow! She snapped it up, ignoring her robe still halfway on the foot of their bed, covered with her lacy white tennis skirt and camisole top. Watching, he was always watching, even after seven years of marriage. Whether she was undressing or dressing, he intensely took her all in, the buttoning, the combing, fixing her hair just so. Once he had commented that he was amazed that there were any male models, because women could make any clothing look desirable, but she understood that he meant her. She knew that he liked her in anything, but that he favored her in his clothes, of all things. Something about the contrast of her body in male wrappings or maybe it was the symbolic act of her claiming to be a part of him. To think of all the time and effort she spent learning about fashion, and he'd be turned on by her in just a sweat shirt and tube socks.
He resigned himself to his boxers on the chair, sitting atop the rest of his "coming out" wardrobe. She had gone a little overboard with the college preppy look. At least she hadn't gone for an ascot or worse, a yellow sweater tied 'round his neck.
No slippers for him this morning; he likes the different feel of textures under his feet: wool carpet, polished oak flooring, marble, rubber matting. They are like scenery for his skin.
No more colored light panes in the house. While she had fun with jumping though the panes, and later throwing clothes and food through them, she quickly became tired of their effect. After all, the chromoscopic values of the wavelengths reset after a handful of seconds. Organically in their place, she had decided on planter boxes filled with flowers whose colors set the theme for each living space. Dark pansies in the entryway, pastels defined the living room, green ferns and wild grasses, both wispy and attentive, enjoyed the bathroom, warm and vibrant red and orange tulips were the current favorite in their bedroom region, while the adjoining lemony kitchen was almost barren, sported only the occasional bowl of fruit. There were still some planter boxes in a waist height room divider between kitchen and the bedroom where they had tried growing some real sized herbs, but the plants' scents were just over powering. After that, planting their miniaturized versions were tried, but they just seemed weak as a divider in their place. This was a detail of their home that just wouldn't be cooperative. They had tried converting it to a stone garden, a bookcase, but it just wouldn't flow.
Picking up a cloth bag, motioning for a drink tray to float over and join him as he steps into the open lift and takes one last look at his wife joyfully singing away while furiously cranking the grinder full of pecans. Yes, he's adding it to the list: 2,179, that she sings when she works.
"Second drawer, vegetables, spices, fruits, wheat, flowers, art, dreams, and peanuts. All out." This had to be the only garden ever with works of art (well, that's what she called them) adorning its borders like an art exhibition. All his: still life, landscapes of times gone by, of H. G. Wells, and of the future. There were sketches of her, too, but he hadn't the confidence yet in his technique to capture her essence on canvas. She persisted in asking for him to paint her, but not yet, he kept postponing it. It would have to be near perfect, yet by demanding perfection, he had no portraits of her to show for his years of painting. Still, he couldn't have dreamed of a better patron for his artistry. Each painting, each sketch, had a small card taped near it listing the artist's name and the title of the work, along with a bid from an "anonymous" source. He had no use for money, so the bids were more personal: bids of two dozen kisses, 10 minute neck rubs and foot massages, and sometimes of his favorite bedtime activities. Talk about motivation!
"Oranges." Yes, that's what he came up here for, leaving their nice warm bed. He pulled on a piece of fruit and it left the branch without tearing the peel. He dug his teeth into the orb to break its skin, and pulled the tear down the side with two fingers until the segments were exposed. Sweet, soft and warm. Not quite what she ordered, but these were ripe already. With the bag on the floater, he picked a dozen large Satsuma tangerines to surprise her. She loved that they were seedless. No need for juicing, she gobbled them up, biting into them without any annoying little "stones." He reached to pick one more.
"Ouch." Little, yet sharp. Too bad they didn't come with painless thorns. Makes one long for a plemon, even if they were bland. Anything, but bland would describe the garden. Though from her mother's kitchen she could smuggle enough food in one of her pockets to last them both a month in their little Shangri-La, he discovered that he enjoyed learning to grow food to feed them both. He enjoyed preparing his gardening bounty in their kitchen as well, and the garden really had gone major. He could just about feed them both from what he grew, and even entertained the notion now and then of microsizing a cow or goat for fresh milk. Sure, she could fill a thimble with enough milk to last them for a week, but where was the challenge in that? Slowly, he had taken over her dresser: Bottom drawer was still their living quarters, and the second drawer up was the garden/art gallery. The third had an above ground fresh water swimming pool complete with water replaced nightly by way of a larger, second tap into the big house's water supply, so no chlorine was needed; a running track surrounded the pool's perimeter, not the edges of the drawer, so the drawer's space seemed larger than it truly was. To ease her mind he ended up using the track more than the pool; she was uneasy about his swimming alone, even in the shallow end. Treating him like a little kid? No, he realized that she just loved him so much that she couldn't bear the idea of finding him at the bottom of the cement pond, picturing his last helpless moments. He wouldn't put her through even the worrying about that, let alone the experience. The pool was only used when both of them were together. Not all closet space, although she had let her closet overflow into the fourth drawer, she had finally restrained her clothes buying habits over time. In fact, there were only six standing clothes racks, and two of them were empty. No longer were a focus for her anymore. She had other priorities. Still, he didn't dare add a smelly cow about her textile treasures. There was always the empty drawer up on top.
Down below, she already had the table set and had retrieved the shoe that he had hidden under the couch last night when he believed she was asleep. With care, she returned it to its mate under the chair on his side of the bed and frowned while reflecting on his action. Why wasn't he excited? They had been talking about and hoping and planning for this day for what seemed like forever. Why was he trying to submarine their architecture for his big debut?
Arms, she felt arms around her, then something more.
"Something's burning, Darling."
"Stop trying to stall, we are not going back to bed no matter how you ... oh, you mean really burning. Pecan Waffles!"
"Language, Mrs. Potty Mouth."
"That would make you "Mr. Potty Mouth?"
"I hate it when you do that."
Forcing a smile, "Oh, it's just a little burnt on the edges, and those two spots in the middle. Chips! Honey, I completely ruined our breakfast."
"Let me see that. Nonsense, it's not totally ruined. See? That one is yours. The next one's mine and I'm sure it will be tan, light and fluffy, with the wonderful smell of – wha-what are you doing?"
"Checking the heft. How much does science really understand about waffle physics and how much is just urban conjecture accepted as fact? For example, how big a dent will a cremated waffle leave, say when thrown by a starving, yet annoyed spouse? It's like a Tootsie Pop, 'the World wants to know.'"
Deer caught in the headlight stare, mouth dropped open, and finally sound comes out like it's supposed to, "So, I'm thinking, split the next one?"
"Really? No, no, no, I simply couldn't. Well, if you really insist."
Three-second pause, followed by the sound of a light bulb clicking on above his head, then a slow, very reluctant, "No, of course I mean it. I was only kid-ding. Have the next two. I insist."
"Yip-pee!" He watches her looking down, not longer addressing him, "What a good daddy you're getting."
The next three waffles are vast improvements over their predecessor, now dubbed "the sacrifice." Still, each is dissected in two, dabbed with butter, smothered in maple syrup and shared between them.
"Oh, how considerate of you! I mean, you're always going that extra mile, ..." A continuous monologue, she was not letting this go. He was constantly treated to her playful voice unless she paused between sweet bites of tangerines or maple drenched segments of waffle grids. Smiling while chewing, she had obviously decided on playing this game throughout breakfast.
While the morning dishes were rinsed and left in the sink, he noticed the result from the morning migration of the West Coast walking shoe. It had rejoined the herd somehow. Plan B.
"How about a quick shower before we go?"
"Just what I was thinking," came across the right words carrying the wrong attitude. "I'll be ready in ten minutes, so I expect you ready in five," and with that she headed down the tunnel leading out toward the big bathroom.
"Wait for me," he called out, but she simply held up her palm and shook her head.
"Nuh-uh, I'm not falling for your old tricks. Four minutes, fifty seconds."
"Come on, you know you like this shower much more."
"Four minutes, forty-five seconds. Care to explain your shoe learning how to play hide 'n' seek last night?"
Busted. "Fine."
Just to rub it in, she sauntered down the tunnel. He'd have to pick out a new shirt fast. Eight minutes later, she was ready and so was he.
Filling his pockets for the first time in years, he glances at his cell phone on its wall shelf. "Never know, might need it. Better safe than sorry." He unplugged both the power supply and the jury-rigged four-inch antenna. The electronics of it had no problem operating at cat chow scale, but in order to receive signals, it still needed a full size antenna to recognize the non-miniaturized wavelength's size. He took one last look about the home that he had spent all his daylight hours inside for the past seven years. Over in the living room was the stage now crowded with additions to the instruments he started with. He had added the cello, piano, and guitar to his repertoire, and when she rolled her eyes, he'd break out into a mediocre Italian accent, threatening to grow a handlebar mustache and take up mastering the accordion next, or perhaps a hurdy-gurdy.
The park, he discovers, has changed since the last time he'd been there with her. Their favorite bridge needed a new coat of paint. Seven years.
Soil plugs litter the ground from the Pickford Park and Recreation Department's aerating the soil to try and maintain it after years of constant use by more and more Pickfordians each year. Older, it still looked like a welcomed oasis, still visited by a new generation.
There are posters run off on a home computer telling which way to go to find Ashley's birthday party set-up in the park tomorrow, but they look like they've been hanging outside for at least a week. Someone else is missing a cat named Mustang.
Innocently running her palm over an elderly birch, she alters their direction without his taking much mind of it. They're both enjoying the moment. The "real" breeze against their skin, the smell of the trees, even the avoidance of some mutt's present left on the grass. This is different and it feels good.
Digging her fingers up the back of his scalp, she notices that he needs a haircut; it is getting a little long. "How'd you like to have a professional quaff your do for a change?" With just a look, he let her know that he preferred his regular barber. "Hungry?"
Sometimes, he still found her hard to decipher. What was she -- oh, no. They had just reached the top of rise when he saw her old church: the Pickford Mall. Her arm was pulled back as he stopped dead in his tracks. Too soon? One of her little smiles, her second hand joining her first, fingers offering an instance of reassuring pressure, a tug in the direction that she wanted to go -- he never saw it coming; he never stood a chance.
As if there were invisible doormen in attendance, the mall doors spread wide welcoming them in. Nervously he clutched her hand, seeking out reassurance over and over again; she provided it. When he relaxed some during their window shopping she managed to relocate their arms about each other's waist. Tension continued to drop like mercury in December, but this was different than it use to be. He was use to watching her shop -- it was the only reason that he tagged along -- but she wasn't really shopping this time, not even window shopping. He kept seeing her eyes in the shop windows' reflections -- she was watching him and checking to see if he was okay. Kinda sort of. Shop and mall cameras scattered about, but he figured "in for a penny, in for a pound."
Decadent odors tracked them down and made their mouths salivate. They orders a couple of chili dogs, fries and iced teas together and found themselves a faux stone table to devour them upon. Everything seemed naturally to reset itself to high school once more.
Teenagers not recognizing her, are having a conversation two tables away. They catch bits of the girls' conversation. Girls go on about how they are treated by their boyfriends. Drugs, betting their bodies among their buddies, Tattooing, piercing, bondage, anal sex, all so their boyfriends will stay in love with them and won't leave them. She and he share glances with each other, one hand laying in the other at the table while they eat.
The girls notice the "old couple" who must be getting off on listening in. They look out of place here, especially him. Time for some fun. The girls get up and sit down at the old folk's table. "Enjoying the Oprah session, are you? So, it's time for the audience involvement portion of the program." Grabbing the straw out of his tea, one of intruders uses it as a microphone. "Girl, what does he make you do?"
Her composure is superior to her partners; he's just not use to being around anyone save her. "Oh, the usual."
"Yeah? Like what? Costumes, role playing, multiple partners, humiliation, handcuffs, what's your safe word, ...?"
Tightened grasp, was it coming from her or him? "He makes me feel alive, special, important, necessary, unique, competent to whatever challenges come my way, empowered, welcomed, accepted, his nexus. You know, the usual."
All the girls scoff with attitude. All, save one. She has disbelief; no, that's not correct. She has the fascination of a poverty-stricken child being told about Santa Claus for the first time. "You really don't order her around, threaten, tie-up, make her do things to you or -- or hurt her? You don't punish her?"
His physiological response is outrage, but only for an instance, then his intellect takes the reigns and he feels great pity and sorrow toward her, toward all of them. His blood pressure immediately subsides and he slowly answers her straight in the eyes, his hand never leaving his wife's, "I have better things to do with my hands."
In her thoughts, his lover reflected selfishly, "You sure do!" and if she had been still a girl, she would have had more than reason enough to blush and break eye contact.
"Hurt her? No, this woman is the love of my life, my heart's desire, the source of all that is strong and good and beautiful in my world. I'm lucky to be a part of her. Why would I attempt anything to diminish her, to hurt us? Her hands are never to be constrained. I long for their touch, savor her embrace; they make me believe in magic."
"Ha! Until you want her to shut her mouth. I bet she knows the back of your hand real well."
"Yeah, what's it really like, Lady?"
She laughs a little, and grins with no restraint, as if she's enjoying a private joke. They'd never get it. For these young women, girls really – just attempting to escape boredom for a few moments by harassing them, support is alien to a relationship, tenderness is equated with the absence of belittling, malice, selfishness or of pain. They figured that they already knew all the answers, having done the math and determined that sex equals love. It would be like trying to explain how television works to a caveman. No, she recalled, that was far easier. Perhaps if she told them about the three words that he still lived by, or her husband's only demand, that she accept that in his point of view it was his place to keep her happy, healthy, and safe? How could she possibly communicate with them?
"It's one of the F-Words."
"Oh yeah, we know all about that," the girls chided her. "See, no difference from us." Taking their achieved sense of no inferiority to the older pair's relationship, the girls left and the couple continued their moment. It had been a great day.
Then, a presence was felt by the couple simultaneously. There was someone there. The CCC? Had they spoiled all their plans only to be discovered on his first day out? There were certainly enough cameras at a mall. A throat was embarrassingly cleared fifteen feet away from them.