"Is Dad a good lover?" I asked my mother as she stood by the kitchen sink.
"Susan! What a question. Was Mark?"
"Dreadful. Guess that was the reason for the divorce." My head hung low as I thought about the year I'd wasted with him. I did not plan to make such a mistake again.
"Would you get my glasses? They're on my desk."
I walked along the wide hallway over the wide plank floor she had picked out herself. My fingers occasionally dragged along the chair rail that separated the painted portion from the wallpaper. Thoughts of leaving my own home I had worked hard to build and decorate filled my head. The house would have to be sold because of the divorce. Mark still lived there though not for long. I had been back at my parent's home for a few days now and was trying to adjust. I would begin my new job as a clerk in an insurance company in three days, a job I already knew I would despise.
Mom's desk was in the library, a room she treated as her sanctuary, a room filled with books filled with wondrous things. I'd read most of them growing up and because of them, visited many lands and been loved by many men. All of them better lovers than Mark. I scolded myself, "What an ass."
Her glasses rested on a bound manuscript lying upside down. A bookmark stuck from the top a third of the way into it. I could not resist turning it over. The title showing through the clear plastic cover was intriguing - 'And Mary Makes Three', the author even more so - Jason Alexander. "Dad?" I gasped. I began flipping though the pages, reading passages occasionally and gasping.
"Susan!" The voice called from the kitchen as loud as if it had come from behind her.
"Here." I handed the glasses to her and rubbed a hand over her back. "Going to sit on the back porch for a while, looks like there's a nice breeze."
"Your father is out there tending to the roses."
"Good." I pecked at my mother's neck. "Memorial day, nice we have a three day weekend."
--
I leaned back, my hands resting on the gray painted boards of the porch, my feet an unladylike distance apart. I watched my father clip the dead parts of a rose bush away and drop them in a small pile of debris. He waved the clippers. I smiled and waved back.
I thought about the manuscript, the parts highlighted with a yellow marker, the annotations along the margins in mother's handwriting. Mary was my age, divorced, living at home. I knew Mary was a thinly disguised description of me. The bookmarked page especially excited me and had the most yellow highlighting.
"Hey little one," he said in his normal husky voice.
I glanced up out of the visions of the manuscript. He was standing a few steps down watching me between the thighs. He grinned and continued to watch. My knees wobbled side to side. I could feel my nakedness quiver as Mary's had when her parents jointly nibbled along her tanned upper thigh.
"Beautiful." He smiled. "The roses." I knew what he really meant - not the roses. My knees steadied but remained apart as I sat upright. I leaned forward slightly, my upper arms squeezing my chest leaving the cleavage more pronounced. "Am I one of your roses?"
"You are beautiful without needing trimming, only some tender touches are needed." He giggled, blew me a small kiss, and returned to the rose bush with yellow flowers.
I watched and let my mind wander as my smoldering fire burned brighter. "Da-amn-n," I drawled to myself.
I had several boyfriends growing up. Mark turned me on the most and I expected the same level of passion and attention to last. It did not. The gambling and drugs quickly replaced me and his space in bed grew empty and cold. I replaced him with my fingers and an occasional afternoon with Linda. "Ah Linda," I moaned louder than I should have. I glanced around, but no one seemed to be staring. No one seemed to have heard.
I was tempted to touch myself. I needed touching. I struggled. I resisted.
--
"Hey Mom, need some help?" I leaned against the back of a chair by the kitchen table. I watched her bare legs and bare feet extending beneath her skirt that ended a few inches above her knees. My eyes roamed upwards across her slim but shapely hips. I imagined what waited on the other side of her hips under the skirt. I wondered if maybe she was lusting in the way I was.
"You can sit on my face."
I knew she did not say that. "What?" I asked.
"You can set the table for dinner."
"Ah. Okay." I giggled inside my head wishing I'd heard right the first time. I pulled the silverware drawer open. She stood close and I inhaled deeply. She glanced at me. "You can be intoxicating," I told her.
She looked at me again and smiled. "That's sweet." Her look lingered for a moment longer and she turned back to the sink.
I picked out knives and forks. "Spoons?" She nodded and I took out three spoons. I closed the drawer and leaned in then pecked on her neck.
"I was telling your father how nice it is to have you home."
She turned and faced me. Her hand rested casually on her hip. Her eyes were inviting, her lips even more so. I had stood in the same place thousands of times growing up and never felt the same as right now. Maybe it was my experience with Linda. Linda was older than I was but slightly younger than Mom was. Mom's fresh breath blew words across my lips. They were inches from mine and ripe for tasting. I closed the distance and let mine lay on hers for a moment.
"I've been thinking the same thing. It was always nice, but this time there is something special." I knew what, but I wasn't telling. I felt warm from the kiss. I tingled in places.
Dad came back down from the bedroom after a shower and changing clothes. "Hey Dad." I planted a small peck on his cheek. "Some chick magnet you are."
"Dinner in fifteen," Mom told him.
He kissed Mom where I had kissed her. "Time for the NewsHour."
"I'll join you," I told him as I swatted him on the butt.
