Some bizarre things have happened in my life but the unbelievable incident with Amy and her bathroom ceiling was taking the crown and occupying my thoughts.
I left for the city the next day as previously planned and I didn't get back to the house for more than two weeks. But there wasn't a day of those weeks when I didn't see her bare ass in the air, her small breast in front of my face, or the big dido nestled between her plump pussy lips. There wasn't a day I didn't jerk off at least once thinking of Amy in a vast range of positions and situations that weren't even close in eroticism to the situation and positions I'd witnessed in real life.
I saw from Facebook that her life continued normally, at least outwardly, with the usual kid activities and even some happy smiling photos of her and Dave for their anniversary. It didn't seem like divorce was on the immediate cards - neither for shoddy ceiling construction, nor for getting trapped in a tub while fucking a suction dildo and being rescued by a neighbor.
When I returned to the house she was on my mind even more. I saw her coming and going a few times on the first day and I jerked off twice more. On the morning of my second day back it was time to mow. I started on the front, then the side furthest from her property, and then her side. Despite the current state of the distractions in my head and in my cock, I finally attained the happy, zen-mowing state. I was on the very last strip, the one adjacent to her property line when I looked up and she was standing at her front door looking at me. She startled me for a second before I regained my composure. I waved a little hesitantly and she walked towards me. I stopped the cutter and killed the engine.
"Hey Amy, how are you?"
"Hi Thomas, I'm good."
"Good," I repeated lamely.
She seemed to take charge a little and asked me the usual questions: when I'd got in, how was the big city, how long was I staying. I stumbled through the usual answers like a tongue-tied teenager. The more obvious questions such as: "How's the ceiling?", "Still fucking the wall?", "Is there any chance I could see your pussy again?", all hung in the summer air like 500lb butterflies. Somehow they stayed locked in my mouth behind an army of my strongest filters.
"Thomas, look... about..."
"Amy..."
"No, listen, I wanted to thank you and tell you I'm sorry and try to explain myself to you."
"Amy... you don't have to..."
"No, I want to. When you've finished the lawn I'd like you to come over for a few minutes, I'll make you lunch if you'd like."
Lunch! Lunch seemed so lame under the circumstances. I wanted to continue to object: no it's not necessary, no, I'm sure you're busy, you don't have to. But a realisation came over me: this was what she needed. Hell, maybe it's what I needed. "It's sure as fuck what I needed," said my cock.
"Sure Amy. I'm actually done but I need to blow the cuttings and jump in the shower. Twenty minutes?"
"Take your time, make it thirty, and I'll make something nice for lunch."
I cut the remainder of the last strip, dumped the mower in the garage, and cleared the clippings from the driveway and sidewalk in half the usual time. I ran inside and threw my grassy work clothes down the basement stairs, underwear, socks and all. I literally jumped in the shower and quickly but thoroughly washed my hair and body and finally I shaved closely and carefully. My hair is short and dries quickly. The rest of me was buffed dry with a rough towel before I even felt its bite. I cleaned my teeth, apres raze-ed my face, and brushed my hair into shape. In the bedroom I grabbed my big city jeans (as opposed to the regular crap I pull on in the country), I pulled on a newish, well-fitting T-shirt, and opted for dockers without socks for my feet. In the mirror this looked fine, season appropriate, and just about as good as it gets these days.
I had rushed so much that I was actually ten minutes early. Now I didn't know what to do with myself. Should I be two minutes early? Boringly on time? Forget being late on purpose that wasn't an available option. A gift! Of course! One of the female-side lessons I'd learned on the road from boyhood to middle age was the importance of gifts. Chocolate! It's always my go-to gift choice and there was a bunch of great British chocolate, not yet dragged out and devoured, languishing in my refrigerator. I opened the door and then questioned myself. Chocolate was a little weird in the circumstances. Too personal. Yes, wine, I said aloud when I saw the a bottle of nice chardonnay chilling on the shelf. I knew I had some wine wrapper bags in one of the kitchen drawers but, no, too fancy. I grabbed a used shopping bag instead. Would she think the wine was weird too? I'd tell her it was for later.
Five more minutes! Gahhhh! Without consciously deciding, I got down my pipe and grabbed a baggie from the freezer. I packed the bowl on autopilot, fired it up, and emptied it in two long hits. I considered another but I wanted to be chilled a little, not a blithering idiot. Damn, now I smell of weed. Back to the bathroom, wash hands and face, rinse with mouthwash, and back down the stairs. I grabbed my bottle and headed for Amy's house. Front or back? I had no idea. I'd never visited her alone on a weekday.
I felt weird opening her yard gate and heading for the back door but it seemed preferable to standing on her front step in full view of the street with an obvious bottle in the middle of the day while her husband was out. At least I assumed he was out. Dave's car had been there on the night I arrived but I'd seen him drive off the next morning, I hadn't seen him come back, and it wasn't there now.
I walked to the kitchen door and she was right there working on lunch. She looked up and saw me and motioned me inside with the chopping knife in her hand.
"Hi Amy, be careful with that thing!"
"Good timing Thomas, we're almost ready," she laughed.
"Here, this is for later," I said as I'd rehearsed.
She took it from me and removed the obvious bottle from the bag by its neck. When she looked at the label she laughed again:
"Forget later," she said as she opened the refrigerator and pointed to a bottle of chardonnay on the door, "I need a drink at lunchtime today and mine is half-warm and half the price of yours!"
She handed me the bottle, a corkscrew and two elegant glasses while she put the finishing touches on lunch. She'd made a near-perfect-middle-class-wife salad of arugula, grilled chicken, and a homemade (she told me with near-perfect-wife pride) raspberry vinaigrette dressing. There was a basket of magically-warmed bread rolls and oil and vinegar on the table for dipping. We were eating on tall chairs on either side of a granite-topped breakfast bar.
We settled into lunch and some inconsequential chit-chat. The most obvious sign of our nervousness was our frequent visits to the wine glass. Less than halfway through the salad I had to refill both our glasses. She looked up at me and said:
"You know I got my bathroom fixed?"
"Cool," was all I could say about the 300lb purple gorilla in the room.
