750
, not one word more.
Hearing Uncle's footsteps coming up the front steps off the porch never failed to excite me.
Regular, the familiar, rhythmic sound-pattern on the wooden planks from his workboots, supple on his sturdy feet.
I sat on my sofa in the front room, overlooking the wind-rippled salt marshes of Cape Cod Bay, deserted in the off-season, my hands gripping the hem of my skirt just so they had something to do. The off-shore breeze that crept in through the closed but drafty windows and doors of the family summer cottage was salty, oceanic, elemental.
Four strides across the porch, vibrations coming through the floor, then his hand on the knob and the door opening.
"Uncle Quim, excellent to see you!" I was breathless. I knew my face was flushed.
A smile came easily to that broad, English face with the long, sharp nose. I don't think he was capable of an inauthentic expression.
"Camille, my same feelings in return."
He closed the door, and in five steps was in front of me, bending in for a kiss.
His eyebrows were dark and craggy, his temples just the barest hint of gray. Even when I was still at university I had found myself drawn to men, rugged men, older than myself. My father's brother had always been handsome, now he had become irresistible.
His eyes met mine. It seemed that they gleamed.
"The drive from Ipswich alright, Uncle Quim? The slog through Boston is never easy."
"It's never tiresome when I have an end-goal in mind, Camille."
My quim tightened, needing no other prompting. My nipples, bare against the inside of my coarse, woolen sweater, were erect. I was aware of his eyes on their protruding humps.
