After the last of her children left the trailer, he waited in the car for twenty long minutes -- long enough to be sure no one else was visiting, long enough to start questioning the sense of his actions. What if it all went wrong?
He climbed stiffly out of the rental car -- a mid-range BMW straight off the airport rental lot -- and crunched over the yellow winter grass to the steps leading up to her front door. The steps creaked under his 180 pounds, and he frowned, wondering if she had heard him, wondering who she thought might be visiting. The mailman? Her ex?
He ran his fingers through his hair, more from nerves than fashion, then knocked on the screen door.
A handful of heartbeats later, the inner door rattled open and a young woman looked out at him. She had the hurried look of interrupted chores, and the damp circle on the front of her t-shirt hinted that there was a sink full of dishes bubbling somewhere inside.
The low-def pictures she'd sent him exacerbated the shock of seeing her in the flesh. Her mid-morning reality, tired and hesitant in the doorway of her trailer, forced the air from his lungs, left him speechless in those first moments of contact. Her brownish blond hair, gathered up in a barrette, trailed over her forehead and was darkened from sweat. Her lower lip, restrained by a nervous smile, was full and broad, hinted of a nature that enjoyed food, drink, pleasure. But it was the eyes that captured his attention, large and blue and poisoned with suspicion. The photos were pale mimeographs of their reality.
"Yes?" She blinked those eyes at him. It was dark inside her trailer, and the December sunlight shuttered her eyes.
He stood staring at her, waiting, only half-breathing. He tried to smile.
She cocked her head to the side, seemed on the verge of shutting the door, when recognition animated her face -- "Victor!"
The door shook open and he found himself stumbling over her threshold. The thick warm air of the trailer -- the sour tang of cooking oil, the antiseptic tingle of dish soap, the blurred edge of cigarette smoke -- made him feel as though he had plunged full-length onto the cushions of a sagging old couch. Wedged there in unfamiliar space, he smiled like a fool at June, basking in the astonishment of her face.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked as she shut the door behind him, sealing them together.
Her voice was lower than he'd imagined it would be, and hinted that her laughter would be a dark, throaty chuckle, the smokey mirth that bar waitresses trailed over their shoulders. He wanted to hear that chuckle in his ear with an almost painful yearning. This stirring of lust freed his tongue.
"June, you really know how to keep a guy in suspense." It was the first message he had ever sent her, and it was strange, now, hearing himself speak it aloud.
"I just can't believe it's you." June laughed -- a delicious, husky burr -- and nodded out towards the parked rental. "Did you drive all the way here?"
"A loaner from the airport -- I scheduled a lay-over."
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" she was nearly shouting, excitement warring with anger in her voice. Her cheeks blushed red and her arm waggled about in frustrated arcs. "This place is a mess. I'm a mess." She stopped in mid-motion, catching sight of the large water stain darkening her shirt. She looked wide-eyed at Victor. "Uh-un. No fucking way."
"Look, it's a surprise. And you can't announce surprises." He waved his own arm at the room. "I don't care what this place looks like. I didn't come here for the decor." Children's toys were scattered over the carpet -- wrestling action figures, a half-broken plastic sword, Matchbox cars -- the clutter of adolescent boys. Huddled along the far wall, a broken-back couch was mounded over with children's clothes.
He looked up from the casual squalor. "I came here for you."
In 3-dimensions, she was wondrous to him. She'd lost the weight that she'd claimed online -- he'd idly wondered about that; although he enjoyed all proportions of feminine flesh, he'd been curious whether she'd felt the need to lie, such an easy online feat -- and her jeans hung loose about her. Ample still, she carried her surplus of flesh well, generous curves swaddled in over-sized clothes. She'd lamented the reduction of her breasts, unintended martyrs to diet and exercise, but the slightly damp t-shirt that clung to her torso accentuated the uplift and sway of what remained.
