Back in Dallas, Jon paints like a man possessed. There's not much in the way of sex, beyond a bit of phone sex.
Thanks, as always, to LarryInSeattle for his editing skills.
Enjoy.
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Exhaustion, physical and emotional, overwhelms Jon and he's asleep before the van has finished the rounds of the other resorts. His fellow passengers assume he is hungover; they aren't far from the truth. His seatmate jostles him awake as they near the airport. The airport is packed, even in the first-class security line he has plenty of time to think. He's too immersed in his thoughts to be embarrassed about cutting in line just because his dad has money. Once he's through security, he stops at the closest shop to get a bottle of water. As he moves toward the register, something breaks through the fog of misery he had done his best to hide from Jess. He changes course and picks up a small tablet of paper. It's a sign of the times that he doesn't really know what it's for. The pages are thin and at the back there's a tear out page with lines. It dawns on him that the pad was meant for writing. The lined page goes underneath each of the other pages to provide a guide.
He smiles. The only pencils are an over-priced package of Bic mechanical pencils. So be it. He makes his purchases and finds his gate. He drains the bottle in two long swallows. He takes a moment to drop the bottle in a recycle bin, returns to his seat, oblivious to the large-chested woman his age trying to catch his eye then sits down and opens the pencils and the pad. He's soon so lost in what he's doing that even the crappy pencil ceases to bother him.
Image after image; the one he had in the water when Jess' body had cause him to cum, her face, the ocean, gulls, Caitlin, his dad. The pencil flies over the page. He stops to erase, to smudge, and, on occasion, to rip a page out and wad it up in his fingers. He spends the most time on the image from in the water with Jess. It's impossible to fit it on one page. He sketches page after page, each a small portion of the large image in his mind.
"Uh, excuse me, but, uh, is this your flight?" Jon doesn't respond. A hand tentatively touches his shoulder. "Uh, is this your flight?" He looks up at the bemused face of the large-chested woman. As he does, the gate worker announces final boarding.
"Fuck. Yeah, uh, thanks," he stammers, shoving the pad and pencil into his open backpack and grabbing it.
"No problem. It's cool." She smiles, and Jon smiles back automatically, given the young woman a hope that doesn't exist.
Jon steps aside to let her board first. She's disappointed when he stops in first-class. So's the guy next to him, who'd almost convinced himself he'd have both seats to himself. The fact that Jon has the window seat doesn't improve his mood. His mollified, to an extent, when Jon leans against the window and sleeps until the attendant taps him on the shoulder and tells him they'll be landing soon. Jon does his best to ignore the fact that he's about to piss his pants as the plane seems to take hours to land and longer to taxi to the gate. For the first time in his life he doesn't stand aside and let others exit first. He runs to the closest bathroom and does his best not to squirm as he waits with all the others who need to drain the hose. Finally, he pisses forever, shivering twice.
He waits amidst the herd milling around the luggage carousel. He returns the wave of the big-chested gal with a nod, then remembers to text his parents and Jess that he's home. He's home. And Jess is in Mexico. For the first, but not the last time over the coming week, he tells himself he is an idiot for not letting her come home with him.
His father retained enough of his Dutch ancestors' frugality to have set the AC at 85
o
. Jon is dripping sweat before he can drop his bag and adjust the thermoset. He gulps down another glass of water, scans the fridge, grabs the keys to his mom's Odyssey and heads out the garage door. He pats the hood of his tired, old, faithful Civic on the way out. His mom's car has more room and a functioning air-conditioner. He puts what seems a small fortune on his credit card at Asel's, then Lowe's before stopping at Albertson to grab a gallon of milk, a dozen packages of albacore tuna, and a loaf of bread. He hurries home and unpacks.
The fifth bay of the garage is a small workshop, mostly hand tools. He took technical arts in high school so he has some idea of what to do. Even so it takes him longer than he'd imagined to tack together an 8X5 foot frame. He's frustrated when he realizes he'll need to add bracing; the frame is too flimsy. He's spared the frustration of driving back to Lowe's, having anticipated he'd need more lumber than he'd planned. He's glad he elected to go ahead and buy the small electric nail gun. He's stretched canvas before, but nothing this size. He grabs the roll of canvas and gets to it. He's picking up the bucket of gesso when a pain hits him. It takes him a moment to realize the pain is a hunger pang. He's startled when he looks at his phone and discovers its almost midnight.
"Shit!", he exclaims and is startled again when his voice echoes in the garage. He hurries inside, dialing Jess' number, trying to remember if Cancun is on the same time as Dallas.
"Hi, Jess. I'm so sorry. I promised to call. I was trying to get a canvas ready."
"It's okay. I could have called you. It works both ways, babe."
"I miss you. I should have stayed or brought you home. I'm an idiot."
"Well, I've told you that your whole life," Jess giggles. The giggle fades. "I miss you, too."
"What's it like hanging out with mom and dad, Travis and Caitlin? Weird?"
"Fucking weird. We all miss you."
"Are you going to have sex with them?"
"Who?!"
"Caitlin, Travis. Jesus, not mom and dad!"
"No, to both. You aren't here. It's against the rules. Besides I don't want to without you with me."
"Okay. I was okay with it the other day, but like you said, I was still there, watching. I don't think I want you to, but if you do, it's cool."
"Nope. No way. I may have to get out of here for a few hours so the rest of them can just fuck and clear away the fog of repressed lust. It's fucking stifling. What are you painting?"
"Nothing yet. I have an idea but I need a bigger canvas than is easy to buy, so I had to build a frame and stretch my own."
"Jesus, you can do that? How big is it?"
"Eight by five."
"You had canvases that big here."
"Feet, not inches, eight feet by five feet."
"What are you painting?"
"You'll have to wait and see."
"Want to have phone sex? I could Skype you while I masturbate."
