Free Where the Kissing Never Stops by Ron Koertge

in. “Waitress,” I said.
    My mother and I looked at each another; it was one of those significant glances you hear so much about. I wondered if she was disappointed in me.
    “Can I drop you somewhere?” Mom asked Rachel.
    “That’d be great. Do you go by the high school? My car’s there.”
    “I’ll ride along,” I said, afraid of what they would talk about. Couldn’t you just hear the conversation?
    RACHEL :
(politely)
And where do you work as a waitress, Mrs. Davis?
    MOM : Hey, I’m not a waitress, kiddo. I’m a stripper.
    RACHEL :
(screaming)
Let me out! Let me out of here. Help! Police!
    “That’s okay,” Rachel said. “This way your mom and I can get to know each other.”
    “No, no, no, no, no.” I sounded like a machine gun.
    “Honey,” my mother said, looking at me with those eyes the same color as mine. “I wouldn’t. Honest.”
    Rachel inspected us both. Poor thing — she was like a tourist who didn’t speak the language.
    “Bye, Walker. See you at school, okay?”
    I put out my hand and she shook it.
    “Today was fun,” she said. Then she squeezed. Meaningfully.
    Immediately I got a killer erection. I’m surprised I didn’t turn pale as yogurt, because all the blood in my body must have rushed to my shorts.
    Woozy with desire, I watched them from the kitchen window. Then I walked into the living room. It occurred to me that I’d never been alone with a girl in my own house. The place seemed big and mysterious, and every hall led to a bedroom. I wondered if my bed was made. Even if it was, so what? Did you say to a girl, “Want to see how well I made my bed?” Fat chance.
    I could hear the furnace hum and the refrigerator go on and off. Was this what it was like to be married to someone, to live in a huge house with bedrooms everywhere and to be able to go into any of them anytime you wanted?
    I have to admit that I felt very grown-up as I sauntered around the house. My house. My flat. My place.
    Then I went into the bathroom and jerked off like mad.
    I was standing in the spotless kitchen wiping the last saucepan when Mom came home from work.
    “A little obvious,” she said, “but still nice.”
    Boy, she saw right through me. “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I just need the car at five-thirty, that’s all, and only for a couple of hours.”
    “You know better than that, Walker. I have to be at the club by six.”
    “In the morning. Five-thirty in the morning.”
    “What in the world are you going to do at that hour?”
    I filled in the details, scrupulously wiping a dish like one of those guys in the commercials.
    “But why,” she asked, “plant anything if the land’s just going to be sold?”
    “We don’t know when, though. And if it’s a long time, I’ll have these oats.”
    “Which you plow under.”
    I stacked the dinner plates perfectly. Now if the camera would just zoom in, I could turn around and scream how clean everything was. “Right, so there’s stuff down there next year.”
    “Oh, well, stuff. Why didn’t you say so.”
    “It’s like vitamins. Mr. Kramer calls it green manure.”
    “You grow manure?”
    “Look, it’s more or less Dad’s fault the land is so tired. I just want to put things right, that’s all. It’s no skin off your ass.”
    “Watch it, buster.”
    “Nose, then. Mom, I’ll do all the work. What little bit it costs I’ll take out of my savings.”
    Her voice dropped a couple of octaves and she went soft around the eyes. “You don’t feel very well taken care of, do you? So you want to take care of something else.”
    “You sound like Sully. The point is, what’s the difference? God knows it’s harmless. It’s not like I was asking to borrow the car to rob banks.”
    “What does Rachel think about all this Farmer Brown business, anyway?”
    “She likes it. She said it was nice of me to want to do it.”
    “By the way, Walker.” She paused to pour herself a glass of wine from the tall bottle in the