let go.
Mary stopped it before things could get out of hand, and despite his heavy breathing and flushed skin, Eric was grateful. He saw another outcome if left to him, and though his body wanted just that, he knew it was too soon, didn’t want to ruin it. Or forget the reason he had come here. But he also didn't want to miss out on a good thing - good things were too hard to come by in his life - that would end up filed as another casualty to his brother's murder.
“I’m sorry Eric,” she said putting her glasses back on as though a shield to ward against lust and its consequences. “I want to. You don’t spend five years married without getting used to certain things and missing them when they’re gone...but I'm not usually like this. It's been a year since my divorce, and I haven't been with anyone since then. If there could be something here...I want it to be more than just sex.”
“No apology necessary, Mary. I was just hoping the same thing.”
“Well, why don’t we try it and see?” There was shyness in her voice, and a vulnerability he made himself mark well. She laughed then, a girlish sound, and said, “Who ever would have thought. You and me. I have to admit that I had a bit of a crush on you back then, before...well, you know. But I never thought I’d see you again, let alone end up on your couch making out.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction, they say.”
“Yeah, but let’s hope not any stranger than your fiction. I don’t think I could handle that.”
Chapter 7
The boy didn’t eat the breakfast set out for him, but instead just made it off the porch and outside to vomit into the yard. After, he sat in the grass that felt cruelly like normal grass on any normal day and began to weep. He cried for a long time, but didn’t abandon himself to it entirely, keeping watch for the van or some sign of life around him. His town never bustled with activity, but it felt like a cemetery now. Where was everybody? He couldn’t find even a robin hopping through the yard with an eye cocked for a worm dinner, normally so plentiful as to appear like mobile lawn ornaments.
It occurred to him that he could call the police, and he ran inside to the kitchen phone and dialed 911. He’d finished punching in the numbers before putting the handset to his ear so didn’t hear the lack of a dial tone. But after the rings on the other end failed to sound, he hung up and tried again, this time hearing the dead silence through the whole operation. He had a vision of the man listening on the other end inside the empty void and slammed the handset back into the cradle and cried again. He forced himself to stop, calling himself a baby and urging action instead. He had to find somebody, and until he did and could turn over responsibility for this he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of being a scared child.
The boy realized that the man might be out there, but he also knew it wouldn’t help to stay here. He might return at any time and correct the oversight of letting him live.
He went back out onto the porch, and pulled his bicycle, a ten-speed mountain bike he’d gotten for Christmas, out from next to Jake’s BMX dirt bike. Opening the porch door and bouncing it down the steps, he got on and slowly rode up the sidewalk to the street. He stopped and stood on the road, straddling the bicycle, watching for the van, and then began a cautious circuit around the block. Cars were parked in driveways but no one was outside. A number of people had dogs, and normally at least one of them barked as if working shifts, but not today. He almost cried out, shouted just to hear something, but feared what that sound would be like in this auditory wasteland, and feared what that sound might draw to him.
He came back around to his house, no better off than before, and kept riding. Halfway around the block was his friend’s house. He rode into the yard and parked the bike, then
Mary stopped it before things could get out of hand, and despite his heavy breathing and flushed skin, Eric was grateful. He saw another outcome if left to him, and though his body wanted just that, he knew it was too soon, didn’t want to ruin it. Or forget the reason he had come here. But he also didn't want to miss out on a good thing - good things were too hard to come by in his life - that would end up filed as another casualty to his brother's murder.
“I’m sorry Eric,” she said putting her glasses back on as though a shield to ward against lust and its consequences. “I want to. You don’t spend five years married without getting used to certain things and missing them when they’re gone...but I'm not usually like this. It's been a year since my divorce, and I haven't been with anyone since then. If there could be something here...I want it to be more than just sex.”
“No apology necessary, Mary. I was just hoping the same thing.”
“Well, why don’t we try it and see?” There was shyness in her voice, and a vulnerability he made himself mark well. She laughed then, a girlish sound, and said, “Who ever would have thought. You and me. I have to admit that I had a bit of a crush on you back then, before...well, you know. But I never thought I’d see you again, let alone end up on your couch making out.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction, they say.”
“Yeah, but let’s hope not any stranger than your fiction. I don’t think I could handle that.”
Chapter 7
The boy didn’t eat the breakfast set out for him, but instead just made it off the porch and outside to vomit into the yard. After, he sat in the grass that felt cruelly like normal grass on any normal day and began to weep. He cried for a long time, but didn’t abandon himself to it entirely, keeping watch for the van or some sign of life around him. His town never bustled with activity, but it felt like a cemetery now. Where was everybody? He couldn’t find even a robin hopping through the yard with an eye cocked for a worm dinner, normally so plentiful as to appear like mobile lawn ornaments.
It occurred to him that he could call the police, and he ran inside to the kitchen phone and dialed 911. He’d finished punching in the numbers before putting the handset to his ear so didn’t hear the lack of a dial tone. But after the rings on the other end failed to sound, he hung up and tried again, this time hearing the dead silence through the whole operation. He had a vision of the man listening on the other end inside the empty void and slammed the handset back into the cradle and cried again. He forced himself to stop, calling himself a baby and urging action instead. He had to find somebody, and until he did and could turn over responsibility for this he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of being a scared child.
The boy realized that the man might be out there, but he also knew it wouldn’t help to stay here. He might return at any time and correct the oversight of letting him live.
He went back out onto the porch, and pulled his bicycle, a ten-speed mountain bike he’d gotten for Christmas, out from next to Jake’s BMX dirt bike. Opening the porch door and bouncing it down the steps, he got on and slowly rode up the sidewalk to the street. He stopped and stood on the road, straddling the bicycle, watching for the van, and then began a cautious circuit around the block. Cars were parked in driveways but no one was outside. A number of people had dogs, and normally at least one of them barked as if working shifts, but not today. He almost cried out, shouted just to hear something, but feared what that sound would be like in this auditory wasteland, and feared what that sound might draw to him.
He came back around to his house, no better off than before, and kept riding. Halfway around the block was his friend’s house. He rode into the yard and parked the bike, then
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