Free Like Slow Sweet Molasses by Unknown Page A

scrubbed in the
shower the melancholy feeling remained intact. Her head rested on knees drawn
up to her chest, giving notice of her injury. Closer inspection revealed
prominent brush burns that cracked the skin there, pulling apart the tears with
every move. She blew and fanned the spot, bent on lessening the burning. There
was nothing to do as the ache throbbed except tuck her legs under her chin to
wait for the discomfort to dissolve.
    Chance
stood riveted in place at the top of the stairs enjoying the view before him.
She huddled, ignorant of the wholesome beauty in her pose. He sopped up as much
of her loveliness as humanly possible through osmosis, filling himself like a
thirsty sponge, teetering on the realm of reality. What did he think he was
doing? The intentional noise made by the scraping of his heels on the stairs
garnered her attention. Luminous gold-brown eyes ran the length of his body
causing an electrifying current to travel across the distance. They shared the
moment in reverent silence with him passing her to enter the bathroom.
    “Lee
and Connie want you to call home.” Salve and bandages shared space in one of
his large hands. He sat on the couch, spun the ottoman so that she faced him
and gently probed the exposed affected area to gauge the soreness.
    She
flinched.
    Angela’s
insides quivered as she let him smear the ointment across the abrasions on her
knee. The bandage applied covered the kneecap and adhered when he tested his
work by holding her at the bend of her knee to flex the appendage. His
fingertips went on to smooth her arms below the elbow and both palms. Her eyes
welled, a condition she hoped to avoid by mind-traveling to another space and
time. His warm, calloused fingers abbreviated her trip when he massaged her
skin. Knowing him for all of two days imposed the fact that she trusted him
wholly after such a short acquaintance.
    Chance
experienced a giddy withdrawal from the loss of contact after releasing her
leg. This seemed the proper time to enact a self-imposed exile from her
magnetizing charisma. The phone was within reach prompting him to spur her into
the act of making the dreaded phone call. “They’re waiting,” he urged.
    Angela
sat like a statue. Miraculously, her business card appeared, the one she handed
the policewoman on her initial visit to his office. Her eyes sparked as he
dialed the number and suggestively shook the phone at her.
    “ Hello.
Hello? Cookie?”
    She
snatched the phone all the while slinging daggers with her eyes. “Yes, Daddy,
it’s me. I’m fine. I’ll be home soon.” She listened. “Before dark? I’m not an
adolescent. I’ll be there when I get there.” The phone hit the ottoman. She hit
the floor flouncing over to the kitchen table.
    “You’re
being a little hard on them, aren’t you?” he ventured.
    “How
much did Daddy tell you, Chance,” she asked, “about my circumstances?”
    “Honestly,
Angela, nothing. I’m picking up bits and pieces and guessing at the rest.” That
was partly true in that the bits and pieces gleaned were from the conversation
overheard right under her bedroom window as he prepared the grill. At times,
their distressed voices broke through to the outside.
    Chance
ambled into the kitchen intending to rustle up a couple of sandwiches, putting
the peanut butter, jelly and bread on the table. He wasn’t a great cook but
held his own as far as bachelor meals were concerned. He hadn’t shopped in days
and offered what he had available. Mismatched plates clanked in one hand as the
other secured the milk carton and two glasses. The butter knife was the final
item to the party.
    Continuing,
he asked, “Want to talk about it?”
    “Nothing
to tell. I’m a bastard baby, that’s all.” A crimson stain flushed upwards
indicating it started from her toes.
    Her
admission floored him.
    “My
father is a bastard who treated my mom like a rug and loved his children like a
drug addict loved getting busted. I don’t