3. French toast. A shopping expedition. Crunchy lamb surprise.
"Ger? Ger, wake up, sleepy head."
I opened my eyes, blinked at Elsa's face hovering near mine. "Elsie?" I grumbled, squinting and trying to focus. "What you want?"
"I'm just taking Marnie off to school," she said. "There's extra French toast in the kitchen if you want some, but you'd better hurry or it'll get cold."
"Thanks," I mumbled. She smiled and bent forward to quickly kiss my cheek.
"See you soon," she said, and spun around, heading out the door. She was wearing shorts and a light blouse, and she filled both of them out rather nicely. A few moments later, I heard Marnie yell, "See ya, Ger!" before the front door slammed shut. Elsa's car sputtered to life, and it pulled away.
Reluctantly, I pulled myself out of bed. Why'd Elsa decided to wake me up? Sure, I liked French toast as much as anyone else in the family, but it wasn't as if it were some sort of delicacy I couldn't miss out on. I was surprised Marnie hadn't scoffed the lot, to be—
Marnie. Our second morning here, and she couldn't have missed the fact that I hadn't slept on the couch on either night. And where else could I have been but here, in Elsa's bed?
Feeling chilled at the thought, I pulled on some clothes and went to investigate breakfast.
* * *
French toast was something of a tradition in the Flinders household -- and one of the few things Elsa actually knew how to make. I could still remember early Sunday mornings, and waking up to the beguiling aroma of melted butter wafting into my room, somehow carrying with it the promise of silken beaten eggs and the sweet taste of crystallised sugar.
Our housekeeper Nancy would still be in bed, since Mum and Dad were late risers on Sunday, but there Elsa would be, in the kitchen. She'd have the bread set out just so, a stainless steel bowl holding the egg and milk wash, the sugar bowl standing ready nearby. A balloon whisk, a spatula. Eggshells lying strewn on the countertop. The early morning sunlight streaming in through the window as she stood there in her dressing gown, watching the butter frothing in the frypan.
She'd see me, and smile.
Morning,
Ger.
Morning, sis.
I'd pull up a stool at the breakfast bar, still half-asleep, and watch her as she dipped the bread slices in the egg wash then carefully laid them in the frypan. The smell would intensify, making my mouth water. The air would haze over gently (or was it just my memory creating that effect, in retrospect?), and Elsa would tend the pan attentively before dishing two slices of French toast, one each, onto the plates already laid out for that purpose.
She'd pass one of the plates over to me, smiling, then turn and start cooking two more. I'd almost always burn my fingers by getting overeager and trying to pick the toast up too soon.
When she was done with the second batch, she'd dish another slice onto my plate, and another one onto hers, to join the one already cooling there. She'd sprinkle them both with sugar. Sometimes she'd spread a bit of jam on them instead, if she were in the mood.
And we'd sit there, on either side of the counter. She sipping her coffee, and me content with just the toast. We'd talk about nothing in particular. She might mention her plans for the day: whether she was going down to the library that afternoon; when her next meeting with her supervisor was; what she was going to get when she went shopping. And I'd pretend interest, thinking more about yesterday's soccer game, or if I had homework to get finished.
A morning ritual, and not even that common a one. As I thought back, it wasn't as if we'd done the Sunday morning breakfast religiously every week, or even more often than not. And it wasn't that big a deal, really -- just ten or fifteen minutes spent together in the quietest moment of the week, when we both had time to sit together before studies and other commitments called us away.
Just me and Elsa. Marn would complain about missing out on the French toast, but nothing could have convinced her to wake up early for it.
Elsa, sitting there across from me in her dressing gown. Me in just my pyjamas, more often than not. Siblings sharing a guileless moment. No concern about appearances. None of the makeup that Elsa normally wore when she went out in public. My hair sticking up like a bird's nest. And Elsa in her warm, close-fitting dressing gown.
Who was I?
Where
was I?
I wasn't that Gerald Flinders anymore. I was caught up in something surreal, something so overpoweringly attractive and
needful
that I'd seemingly never even had the chance to blink, let alone arrest its progress. The previous day flashed through my mind, distorted by the fisheye lens of surrealism.
Because it
was
surreal. Who was I? I'd come home yesterday afternoon and I'd taken her. We'd taken off our clothes and somehow lost ourselves in each other. Touching her face, kissing her hair. Caressing her bare skin. And she holding me, crying out, trembling with longing and need. Wanting each other. Having each other. Making love in a kind of moonlit dream last night, so much love and intimacy that I didn't even remember when we'd fallen asleep; didn't remember when we stopped being one entity.
Until I woke up again, and I was Gerald. Cold morning light forcing focus into my surreal existence. I had loved my sister. Elsa and I had made love, had fucked each other with passion and wordless desire. My sister's naked skin against mine. Her arms clutching me, her low gasps of ecstasy compelling me further. And we had come together, shuddering, struggling for breath as our lips met and our bodies locked against each other in climax.
Who the fuck
was
I? That wasn't real, was it? What I was remembering; the dreamlike images from last night: none of it had actually
happened
, had it? Elsa and I... Me and Elsa. She was my
sister
, for fuck's sake. And I loved her, sure -- loved her madly; wanting her,
needing
her -- but what could— How could I have...?
I put down the last bit of toast, unable to think anymore. Even the simple mechanics of chewing seemed to be beyond me. The sheer
enormity
