The house pressed dark and sharp against the blue sky of the morning as the gravel crunched under the tires of our old Ford Taurus. My husband, Chris, gripped the wheel and looked over at me, his hazel eyes flat and cold. Eyes that used to pour over me. Eyes that used to spark when he laughed. Before his business went under. He jerked up the emergency brake as we pulled in front of the house.
"Well. We're here," he said. "Come on, boys. Wake up."
"They can sleep a little longer, can't they?" I said, putting my hand on his forearm.
He pulled his softly furred arm away and sighed.
"I guess. They're going to have to wake up to this sometime, though," he gestured at the rundown house.
"Let's just go see what Mom left in there," I said.
He sighed and opened the car door, saying nothing in return.
I looked back at the twins nestled in their car seats, each clutching a separate corner of a red dinosaur blanket. Their identical heads slumped against their shoulders. They were four years old and in a rare moment of potential energy. Usually they careened around, grabbing, laughing, shouting, digging, tumbling. Their little faces smudged and grinning. They were happy boys. Dark like their father. Tall like me.
I nudged my car door open, careful not to wake them and followed Chris to the front porch. The porch swing I used to curl up on to read hung suspended by a single rusty chain. The arm rest lay cracked against the rotting floor. My mother's silver wind chimes tinkled in the cold breeze, the only human sound against the backdrop of the dark woods surrounding the house. The front yard stood winter brown and crackled under my boots as I approached the front door, my breath puffing in huge white clouds.
"Jesus, your mother was living in this?" My husband muttered as we climbed the front steps.
"She was a proud person, Chris."
"Proud don't pay the bills."
I ignored him and felt around the door frame for the key my mother always kept stashed there. My fingers lit on the key and drew it into my palm.
"Ok, I got it."
He stood back as I inserted the key into the lock and cranked it against the years of neglect. The bolt slid back and I turned the worn brass knob, pushing my shoulder against the heavy mahogany door. The swollen wood caught and squealed against my weight.
"Can you help me, please," I looked back at Chris, who stood with his hands thrust into his pockets staring out at the woods.
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry." His brow crinkled. "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"I swear I just saw someone cross the yard. Like from the corner of my eye."
"Can you see the kids?" I asked him, anxiety welling in my chest.
"Yeah, they're still sleeping," he said, standing on his tiptoes to better see.
"It's going to be weird living in the country," I said, hoping to reassure him. "Sound really carries out here."
"Let me get the door," he said absently and hurled his muscular shoulder against the wooden door.
It screeched and groaned with each thud of his shoulder. Soon it gave and the living room from my childhood appeared through the crack in the door, but different. Decayed. Entropic. The wallpaper fluttered in the cool breeze from the open door like strange leaves. The brown carpet was matted and tattered at the edges. I remembered the feel of it under my knees at Christmas as we handed crisply wrapped presents to one another. The smell of cinnamon and coffee. My mother's small hands brushing through my hair. My father dangling curls of shiny red ribbon above our disinterested black cat. Laughing. Hugging one another with each slip of the box lid, each whisp of tissue paper.
"Oh god, it's worse than I thought," my husband groaned as he peeked around the corner.
"It's going to be fine, Chris," I said and stepped inside. "Why don't you go and check on the boys?"
His boots clomped over the faded hardwood as he stalked out.
I went to the dust-smocked mantle and brushed my hand over the top, slicing through the pale dust with my palm, revealing a dark crescent of wood beneath. My fingertips traced over a photograph tucked against the wall. I picked it up. My heart beat as I recognized the jagged script on the back.
It was him.
Warmth spread across my belly. Wetness gathered warm and urgent like a gulf wave between my thighs. Antony. My Antony.
I flipped over the photograph to see his wide bright smile, his muscular shoulders flecked with water from the lake. His sandy hair tousled and wet.
I remembered that day. We were seventeen and we were in love. The midday sun glittered on the water like diamonds on blue satin. His cheeks and shoulders were scattered with summer freckles and his laugh boomed across secluded swimming hole. He bounded into the water, his obliques cutting long lines of tight flesh against his flat belly. I followed him, squealing and splashing in the waist-deep water feeling my nipples tighten. He ducked under the water and swam toward me, grabbing at my thighs as he popped his head just above the surface, smirking. His hair slicked back, curling faintly at his neck.
My body was crisp and new then, before my children. Unstretched and taut, I was a virgin with high, firm breasts. Not a wrinkle. Not a crease. My thighs were lean and long from riding horses with my older brothers, my arms and shoulders lined with muscle from pitching square bales of hay and slinging saddles onto the back of my sorrel gelding, Ranger.
His hand slid up my inner thigh under the water and grazed the edge of my bikini bottoms. His fingers lingering as he looked up at me. I reached for his hand and slid it under my swimsuit. His green eyes held steady to mine, his smirk fading in a look of serious concentration. The wind sifted through the bright green leaves in a hushed whisper as he stood up to his full height to pull me to his lean chest. I turned my mouth up to his and his soft, full lips covered mine. It was my tongue that nudged his mouth open to lap and caress. I could feel his erection pressing against my belly through his yellow swim trunks. That insistent warmth surged inside my body. My clitoris swelled as I pressed against his thigh, wrapping my long legs around his middle. He cradled my bottom as he carried me toward the sun-warmed granite boulders on the shore where our bright towels lay spread like Christmas ribbons.
He stepped up onto the sparkling boulder with me still wrapped around his hips, the muscles in his thighs arching and striated as the water streamed off of our bodies.
As he approached the flat-topped boulder, I unwrapped my legs from his middle and scooted backward onto my pink and yellow hibiscus beach towel. His cock jutted hard and thick against the wet fabric of his swim trunk as I untied my string bikini top and let the triangles of fabric fall away from my breasts. I could feel his eyes running over my body.
He licked his lips and crawled on top of the boulder to join me.
"Is it ok if I touch them?" He asked.
"It's not a museum," I quipped.
We giggled as his hard farm boy hands cupped my breasts. He lowered his lips to my petal pink nipples and kiss each one tentatively. I arched my back toward his warm mouth and touched myself through my wet bikini bottom. He sucked on my nipples, drawing small circles around my areolas.
I slipped my hand down his shorts and touched his rigid, silky penis. He froze as a small pulse bumped against my palm. A small drop of slippery hot liquid slid from the head.
"Oh no. I think I can make it. Just give me one second," he breathed in my ear.
A sudden urge to grip and stroke him until he exploded into my hand seized me, but I fought it, withdrawing my hand and twining it through his wet hair, kissing him again and again as he slid his hand down my belly and under the stretchy fabric of my swimsuit. His fingers rubbing and stroking against my clit. I gushed and moaned as he slid a single finger inside of me.
"Am I hurting you?" He asked, his eyes wide.
"No. Don't stop," I breathed as the heat inside built with each stroke.
I pressed my fingertips against my swollen clit, as I had done so many times in my bedroom, laying on the carpet in front my stereo as Pink Floyd vibrated through the speakers. He moved his finger in and out as I stroked myself under the warm sun. The heat. The flush. Red bloomed behind my eyes as my orgasm spasmed through my belly.
I rolled over and pulled down his shorts to see his thick circumcised erection bob against his flat belly. The head was purplish and pearled with beads of clear ejaculate. I wanted to kiss it. To take it into my mouth and suck. He shivered as I pushed him down lightly to his back and kissed down his torso to his eager member. I slid it into my mouth, tasting the saltiness of it as it slid over my tongue. The smell of his sun-warmed skin rose around me as I bobbed my head and gripped his shaft, using my saliva to work up and down the delicate skin.
Very suddenly my mouth was flooded with viscous, salty cum.
The memory of this shimmering day was so real, so urgent, that I could feel my panties warm against my throbbing pussy. Someone was calling my name from far away.
"Ellie...Ellie? Ellie!"
I snapped out of my reverie to see Chris standing in front of me, his flinty black eyes staring into mine. He reached for my shoulder and then let his hand drop back to his side. Both of my sons stood rubbing their eyes in the same eerie twin gesture behind his legs.
"Mama?" Ollie, my oldest by four minutes said, his black eyes prefect replicas of his father's.
"Hey there, handsome. Did you and Artie have a good nap?"
Guilt surged in my chest as I gripped the picture of Antony in my hand.
"Who's that?" Chris asked, reaching for the photograph.
I pulled it back to my chest away from his grasp.
"He was my first boyfriend. He died on his way to pick me up for a date."
"Oh," Chris said, his mouth a thin, neutral shape.
He didn't ask me anything else. He never did anymore. He just took our sons hands and led them upstairs to see their new rooms, leaving me holding the photograph and smelling Antony's skin on my hands.
***
I woke up alone in my mother's old bed, feeling the newly washed sheets crackle under me. Chris had been on his laptop when I went to bed, the blue light casting shadows across his tired face in the dark living room. Since his business went under, he rarely slept in the same bed with me anymore. He fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted backwards, his hands slack at his sides.
At first, I had wondered if he was watching porn. I had agonized in front of the mirror, plucking at the folds of skin on my sides and lifting my breasts, imagining my husband's hands running over my hips like they did when we were on vacation in Florida. His fingertips had traced my stretchmarks as he breathed hot in my ear, whispering how he loved my big breasts and pregnancy-stretched skin. I went downstairs to confront him about his porn usage, thinking about my students at the prison where I taught GED courses. My resentment bubbling into sexual fantasy where I was the center of their desire.
I padded up behind him, expecting a barrage of young bodies being fucked in a cacophony of pinks and browns. I held my breath, my heart beating.
