Thursday, October 22, 2015
Night Cap (Blogophilia 35.8)
The tenth floor apartment was not far from the park. Limping, she leaned heavily on her cane as they entered the building. Inside the door was a modest unit fit for a single. A couch and coffee table sat on the opposite wall angled slight toward the corner where the TV was hung. A door to the left was open, his made bed visible in the shadows. To the right was the galley kitchen.
“So, come on in.” Dropping the suitcase next to the couch. “It ain’t much, but it is home.
“Coffee? All I have is some decaf.”
“Ooh, that sounds good. I’m freezing.”
“Did you want to change?” Red formed along the edge of his cheeks. “I can go back in…”
“Oh, hush. I’m not modest.” She grabbed a quilt that was on the couch and wrapped it around her. The hands disappeared and with a whoosh, the wet top flew over her head and landed on Bart’s head. She laughed as his face grew redder and frightened. A pale pink bra appeared next. Looping it around his head with a wicked grin, the embarrassment now was in full flower. Pulling the quilt out a bit, she shook from side to side.
The next command was accompanied by a peck on the cheek. “Sweetie, open my bag and grab the red t shirt.”
He complied without a word. Unzipping the bag, he found the shirt on top. Flipping it over his shoulder, it landed over her face. Giggles sounded as the shirt quickly went over her head.
“O.K. you can look.”
When he turned, the shirt was covering everything to the middle of her thighs. “Six Feet of Earth Makes Us All Equal” was emblazoned across her bust.
“You like slogans, don’t you?”
“Yep. I thought it was appropriate since I am here for a funeral.” She threw the quilt back on the couch. Pulling up the shirt on one side, she pulled at the waistband. “It’s going to take forceps and strong hands to get the pants off. I think they are glued to me.”
She started hopping from foot to foot. “Oh, God. I have got to pee.”
Taking her arm, he guided her to the bedroom door. “Through there and on the left.”
“Need any help?”
“I think I’ve got it, thanks. But could you grab some panties?”
A night light marked the way. Pulling the door to, she flipped the switch. She was presented with the sparse accouterments of a male dominated space. Clean off white walls over large square salmon tile that dated to when the building was new. A beige plastic cup held a disposable razor. The toothbrush hung from a matching ceramic fixture. A plain mirrored cabinet hung over the sink. It was clean, but all form and function, no frills.
There was a knock and she took the undies, laying them on the edge of the sink. Closing the door completely, the pants came off. They peeled off easy, just like when Mom would strip her. She found a towel and began to dry off. The sequence after a rain dance would be yelling, stripping, two spanks, and a long hug with a towel fresh out of the dryer. Naughtiness had its rewards.
The commode was on the far side of the vanity. It was a high one with a grab bar next to it. Good, some support. Hurriedly kicking the wet clothes aside, she turned and eased toward the seat. A scream stuck in her throat from the cramp going under her legs. Hot damn, this hurts. Taking a breath, the butt met its target. The relief was audible.
After finishing, she pulled around the vanity to wash. A disaster of a woman stared back from the mirror. Blond and pink frizzed out every direction, beach hair and deep rings around crimson eyes. She made a half-hearted attempt to primp, but it didn’t matter. The raccoon eyes told her she was home.
Her eyes shifted to a shelf next to the sink. A silver framed picture of a bald woman looking slightly down. Bart was vulnerable. Psycho Jack would be laughing right now, wondering how big the payoff would be. She knew she would not and could not squeeze him. Money had never done anything for her. Pleasing people did, but it seemed to always land her in trouble. Pleasing Mom only brought questions of what she was scheming. Pleasing Psycho only got the law involved. What would pleasing Bart bring?
Gently, she rubbed her hip. Dancing with the old man in the rain sounded like a bad drug store romance. It was fun and scary at the same time. Pulling up the shirt, she traced the letters of her tattoo. Bart kissed better than Psycho by a long shot. Age is an issue of mind over matter. Bart didn’t seem to mind and neither did she, so it doesn’t matter.
The sun is coming after all.