Seventeen

My daughter looked up at me endearingly as I stared down upon her in attentiveness. When I saw her eyes they reminded me of the first time I looked into her father's eyes, perfect and gentle and wintry. They were blue, her eyes, and his. She was just as perfect as he was, if not more, but I could never tell him that. My husband was the jealous type, not that he could ever allow our daughter to be the object of his jealousy concerning me.

She didn't speak, she simply paid attention to where my eyes roamed and finally squirmed when she was ready for my attention once more.

"Daddy?" She patted my thigh and spoke finally in her voice that sang like a bell.

"Yes, sweetheart."

"Why isn't my hair red like yours? Daddy always says it's your fault and he would have 'preferred' that I looked like you." She moved to sit parallel of me.

They grow so fast, she even moved like her father. Moving slow, as if every step could change the course of the next week of their lives.

"Because, sweetheart, when daddy and I decided to have you I wanted to be reminded of how much I love him every time I look at you. But, your daddy is a lot like you. He wanted the same thing I wanted. In the end I was the one who got what I wanted and so was daddy, we got you. And every time I see you, I see daddy too." I tried to avoid being overwhelmingly renascent in the face of the truth, taking a deep breath.

This wasn't the first time she had asked me or her father this question, the answer however, always remained the same. It was routine for my young one, she loved to hear things about her father and I. I had always expected my children to have curious minds, and of course, my first child had failed to disappoint. She was everything she should and more, she reminded so much of him, it was comforting.

I've always wanted children, but I never knew it would feel like this. My daughter always exceeded my expectations. My husband was just as satisfied by our daughter as I was, but he wanted more children, and so did I. He wanted a daughter than reminded him of me, and I wanted sons that reminded me of him as much as our daughter did.

Despite the fact that knew my child well enough to determine which story she would want to hear tonight, it could hurt to ask. I quickly went over her favorites in my head, making sure to keep the details correct and the important parts dramatic and exciting, the way she would imagine. Not the way I would remember it, these stories were really about her, she just didn't know it yet.

"Come on, sweetheart, it's time for bed." I got up from her bed and patted the pillow at the top of the bed, gesturing that she should finally lie down. "What story would you like to the voice I used only when I wanted to calm her, she had known it since infancy.

I sat in the chair beside her bed.

Suddenly all the slowness in movement she had gotten from her father went out the window and she bounced to the top of the bed in excitement. "The Boy and the New Boy." She told me in voice that could only remind me of him and the time I first saw him, her voice was low and filled with wonder. She adjusted herself in in the bed as she spread out her feet and I pulled the covers over her.

"You should know that one better than me by now." I looked up at the ceiling in amazement, since children never cease to amaze.

A very long time ago, before you were born, there was a boy. This boy was an orphan. The only family the boy had was his godfather, who was also his grandfather's best friend. When the boy's grandparents passed away, the godfather took the boy into his home and raised him like a son. I told the story from a grand perspective, putting forth every effort to ensure it was larger than life, because to her it was.

"The boy never knew is parents." She added putting her arms over the covers, snuggling deeper into the bed, adding effect to her voice.

"Yes." I said to her.

So the day came when the boy became a man, raised by his grandfather's best friend, the boy was shy and kept to himself. He hardly ever spoke to anyone. The godfather worried he had cared and protected the boy too much as a child, he knew the boy was as curious and independent as he was shy. He struggled to find a way to make the boy show that to someone other than him.

"What happened next?" She asked as if someone would burst into her room and steal the story from her and she had never heard it before. "Did the boy never speak again or is something wrong with him?" Did he-?" She continued with the onslaught of questions, wiggling in the bed, making her hair appear as a tumbleweed.

"The boy was fine, like I said he was just shy. But, we're not even to the good part and you've got a multitude of questions!' I laughed, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

Then one day the boy was sitting in his godfather's café, daydreaming, reading a book, and paying no attention to the fantastical world surrounding him. When the bells on the door of the café sang, the boy was snapped out of his daydream.

"Who was it, daddy?" She giggled, rubbing her hair aside like her father did. "Was it a stranger?"

"Shhhh," I patted her stomach. "If you get too excited you won't be able to go to sleep after the story is over and dream about it." I continued using the voice that calmed her, "And yes, sweetheart, it was a stranger. But, not the bad kind, it was the kind of stranger that you want to meet. The kind that you wouldn't mind looking after you."

Another boy came into the café, the new boy looked around the café, as if he was searching for someone. And when he caught the eyes of the boy sitting in the café he smiled. The boy covered his eyes with the book he had, and the new boy went down the aisle of the booth the boy was sitting. And when he reached the boy and his booth he sat directly next to the boy and smiled. The boy didn't smile back.

I paused knowing my daughter would interrupt, since this was her favorite part.

"Why didn't he respond to the smile, daddy?" She widened her eyes, piercing my soul as her father once had. "Was he scared of the new boy, did the new boy make him angry?"

"In a way, yes, the boy was scared of the new one. And while he wasn't angry, he didn't say anything or smile back because his shyness wouldn't allow it." I smiled deeply at my child.

So the new boy stared at him gently, fixated with being distracted for so much as a second. And the new boy began to speak to him, but he said nothing. He continued to read his book, hiding his eyes from the new boy. When the new boy insisted that he tell him why he remained quiet, the boy told him how he enjoyed his imagination much more than the 'real' world, then he tried to hide behind the book again. But, the new boy pulled the book to the table forcing him to show his eyes.

"Here comes the best part." She chimed in.

The boy knew he couldn't avoid the new boy, so he was stuck in conversation with him. He revealed to the new boy that he seen him watching him all over and the new boy admitted that he was making sure he stayed safe. As they continued to talk the boy found out that the new boy was his godfather's grandson. But, the most shocking part was the fact that the new boy was named after his grandfather and also that both of their fathers' were named after the others grandfather, their first/middle/last names were simply reversed.

I briefly paused to let the anxiety of the near end build.

She tapped knee, "Daddy, please don't stop. What happened next?" She asked calmly, taking a deep breath, knowing I would continue unless she began to wind down.

The conversation went on for hours, the two sat and talked. And they did until the boy got up and began to leave and the new boy followed wondering where he was going. Eventually, the new boy began to court the boy and they fell in love. And when they were nineteen, they married, that was two years later. And then after sometimes after that they had a child and they lived to happy for the rest of their lives.

"No happily ever after?" She was obviously disappointed, though she still smiled.

"I said they lived to be happy for the rest of their lives. There really is no such things as a happily ever after, since happiness is a mood, sweetheart. It's not permanent, nothing in life is. Anyone can be happy their whole life, but still have struggles. It called being human." I smirked at the look on her face, then sealed the lesson I always gave at the end of this story with a kiss to her forehead.

"Amazing story, daddy, but the ending is questionable." She clicked her tongue in suspicion.

"Well, I guess you'll have to make it better one day. When you tell it to your children. Now it's time for some sleep, sweetheart. I love you and sweet dreams."

I pressed the light off and closed the door lightly as I exited. She would be out in no time, it was winter in Chicago and the whisper of the snow and the wind beat against the house violently creating a loud, desperate, and surreptitious whistle. The heater within our home made the air thick with warmth and comfort and easy for all to sleep in peace. I glanced quickly at the clock in the hall of our three story house, was seven-thirty, the clock. I had an hour before my husband got home. I decided I would cook for him, he worked decent hours, so the food wouldn't get cold. I journeyed down the stairs from the third floor to the second, which housed my kitchen and front room.

There was already a roast I had thawed, tenderized, marinated, and seasoned. I peeled potatoes, then cutting smaller ones into fours and larger ones into sixes. I placed the cut potatoes in a glass pan, leaving room in the center for the roast. I then drizzled melted butter over the potatoes, sprinkled them with salt, pepper, and garlic onion seasoning.

The stove was set and preheated to four-hundred.

I opened the stove door and my face and nostrils were bombarded by heat and the pungent smell of the heat, thick and robust, and alive. I placed the glass pan with all its contents in the stove and closed it. I went to the kitchen counter, poured myself a glass of chilled red wine, sat at the sofa, and opened my favorite book, White Fang by Jack London

As I read the words of the narrator my mind was filled images of the frozen north, the same as it once had when I was a child. I was seventeen when I met my husband and I had married young, this book held memories of who I once was, before I became a father and a husband, and far before I learned to trust and fell in love. The scene changed in the book as the pack left the Indian's camp journeyed out into the wilderness and as they did I thought about the irony of that. I had always been the kind to be acquainted with the wilderness, it was my friend, and it was comforting, but love changes everything. When I did fall in love, I left the comfort and danger of the wilderness, and traded for a life in the 'Indian' camp. I had settled down and started a family. The opposite was always expected, I was never expected to leave behind my old ways to start anew.

I laid the small decorative blanket over myself, making sure to cover my feet. And read the last few pages of the chapter, placed the book on the small table bedside the sofa, and laid my head back in relaxation.

I drifted off.

--

I knew I was dreaming based on where I was and how old I was. When I looked at myself I knew I definitely wasn't thirty-two yet and based on where I was, I knew I hadn't been married for fourteen years yet.

The air of the place I was in was much hotter than the air of my house, it was tropical and moist, almost stuffy. The bed I was laying in was hidden beneath satin cloth. And I realized my skin my much firmer than usual, I was obviously younger. I instantly knew I was naked under the sheets of the bed and when I pressed myself harder against the surface of it, it too was unyielding. I looked up to see my husband asleep. The bed was filled with white rose petals and my body was sprawled across his. I put my chin against his sternum and took a deep breath.

If I was going to re-live my honeymoon, I might as well enjoy it. I took a long stare at his white skin and realized that despite my dark brown skin tone, I couldn't tell where he ended and I began. I kissed his sternum, and he shifted his weight blurring our togetherness. I continued up in a straight line, kissing his neck, this time he hadn't moved. I continued, kissing his chin, feeling his slight stubble. Still no real reaction.

I finally kissed his lips and he kissed in return, putting his hand in my long curly hair. I rubbed my leg against his growing erection and he pulled me deeper into the kiss. I threw the sheets off our bodies, exposing our nakedness to the light and warmth of the room. I pulled my lips from his, kissing his chin once more, following the same pattern I had. His nineteen year old body was no less sculpted than his thirty-two year old body. I kissed his neck, continuing down to the skin between his pectoral muscles. He began to moan.

I kissed his belly button, which stuck out like a knob, using my tongue to play in the thin line of hair below it. I traced it down to the stop right before his groin began and skipped right to his hard cock.

He let out a quick and deep moan.

I wrapped my ample lips around his member, and instantly felt the warmth and smelled the desire seeping from his groin. I took him into my mouth slowly, trailing up the length of his cock over and over again, slowly.

He pushed his head harder into the pillows.

While his unit was still inside my mouth, I teased the head of it, coming off it. Then sealing each stroke I made on it with a kiss to the head. He moaned deeper and thrust himself past my mouth and into my throat. And he unloaded down my throat and into my stomach.

I swallowed hard and pulled myself back up to his face and kissed him deeply.

--

The brightness of the dream receded as the smell of meat, butter, potatoes, garlic, and onions filled my nose, it was dark in the front room. I went to the kitchen and turned the stove off. I journeyed back through the front room and up the stairs. I opened my daughter's bedroom door lightly and saw her sleeping body in bed. Her blond hair still appeared like a haystack and her white skin was turned pale by the moon, I could her soft breath from across the room.

I closed the door without a sound and journeyed back to the kitchen. I removed the roast and potatoes from the stove, the clock in the kitchen read eight twenty-five. I took asparagus from the refrigerator and place them in the steamer, which was placed over a pot over boiling water on the stove top. I walked gently back to the sofa, taking wide steps, and re-opened my book. I tentatively sipped my wine, to test its coolness, and then took a larger sip when I understood that it was cool to my likings. I finished another chapter. The grey cub and his siblings had just been born and Kiche, the she-wolf/dog, had protected them from their one-eyed father. I sat the book down, sipped my wine once more, then went to the kitchen.

I turned the fire off and the pot of boiling water and removed the top from the steamer. I pulled two plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter, then took the roast out from the stove, and used a thin knife to cut two good-sized pieces of roast. I placed one piece on each plate, then used a large wooden spoon to scoop the asparagus and placed it too on the plates, after that the potatoes. I used the spoon, scooped the sauce from the bottom of the glass pan and drizzled it over the potatoes and slices of roast. As I got forks and knives from the utensil drawer, I saw lights over the window of the front room.