Doughnut Shop
You stood in the snow looking up.
We had been on our way out the door when I'd gotten a call. I was buttoning my coat and asked you to answer it for me. You picked up the old black handset of the telephone in the front hall; the one sitting on the wood box with the instrument's bells and the thick cord. You marveled at its weight.
"He's right here," you had said to the inquiring voice. After exchanging greetings, I had held my hand over the mouthpiece - "Give me ten minutes, OK. darling?" You kissed my cheek and ran out the door and, turning left at the bottom of the porch stairs, trudged around the house into new territory.
It was a beautiful day -- the day after the snow. You turned to watch the troop of schoolboys shoveling the far drive that came from the street through its own gate and back to the carriage house. But here, the main driveway remained pristine. It came in the opened iron front gate and formed a circle running past the porch then back out. At the side of the loop where you were heading was an iron gate. Now you wondered about it. You made your way up the five steps, pushed it open. You had never been around this side of the house.
As you came around the corner, you were standing on what must be a wide terrace, now deep in snow, with a brick wall to your right separating it from the bushes and trees that bordered it on that side. Pushing your feet through the fifteen inches of powder and down the center of the long terrace, you looked back at the house on your left. You realized you were looking at the huge room we had danced in. "So all those French doors open onto this terrace," you said to yourself.
A cardinal was perched on one of the trellises against the building. Its brilliant red feathers were like fire against the stone. It cocked its head, watching you as you imagined the balls and parties that must have taken place here. "Oh my," you said aloud -- your breath coming out like billows of smoke in the crisp air. You trudged over to the center door and pressed your nose to the glass. Yes - there was the piano, the chairs, the mirrored wall just as we'd left them weeks ago.
You smiled. You trudged on around the house. This room, the Terrace Room had the huge French doors on three of its sides and it connected to the main house only on one wall -- the mirrored one. Looking up, you could see that its flat roof twenty five feet above, had a rail around the edge. You thought, "My goodness, a balcony that big?," and you wondered how you'd get to it from inside the house.
You hadn't realized how big the house is. You had seen it only from the street and from the far driveway and back entrance that you used to go into the servant's wing. You had always been so busy coming and going that you'd never explored it.
Looking up, you now saw that the house stood three stories high, not even counting the dormered windows in the roof above that. The bottom floor was very tall. You had only ever been in the bottom two floors. And you were realizing that your basement 'play room' must be here under this back corner of the Terrace Room. Yes -- here were the grated tops of the window wells that let the light down into that secret place.
You shivered at the memory and your pussy moistened. The very thought of your special room was exciting. As you rounded the corner, you thought about how it made you feel warm to be reminded of your slow, subtle training. You thought about how your response was so strong. You thought about how it's the way you want it to be. Exciting. Gently, lovingly dominated. You wondered what the next step would be. You very nearly turned back to wait for me in the front hall so you could take me back upstairs or, better yet, ask me to take you to your playroom.
But there, around the corner was an open space with a large marble fountain. Its raised marble bowl, fully five feet in diameter, stood as tall above ground as you. Its base stood as deep below in the fountain's empty, wide pool. And there was a statue of an angel standing at its far edge. Beyond her and the ancient trees, was the very tall stone wall that kept the street world out of this sanctuary.
You recognized these from your view out the library windows where you study these days. You wondered how you'd never thought to come outside before.
On around the house, you came to a serpentine brick fence undulating through the trees across the yard from the back wall to house. Here was another wrought iron gate. You forced the gate open against the weight of the snow and pushed your way into a disheveled snow-covered garden.
There were obvious paths through snowy lumps of plantings. There were small trees and shrubs and there were trellises and all this going on an on with benches and a table away over there and -- and there, deep in this rambling old Eden, was a large, intricate, Victorian glasshouse -- its copper frame green with the patina of a hundred thirty years.
How had this become your life? It was as if you had stepped into someone else's skin. It was as if you had been swept into someone else's story. And there was so much of the tale yet to be revealed -- so much about him -- and here, in the snowy garden, you felt that to hear the full story, the real story, you'd need to reveal yourself as well. You should risk it.
You turned slowly all 'round. And then, gazing back and up at the house, you saw those huge bay windows of your new room far above, overlooking the garden.
And so you stood in the snow looking up -- in your heavy sweater, and your pleated wool skirt and your thick woolen tights, your mittens and your infinitely cute insulated boots -- looking up at the flash of a woman's face in your window smiling down at you.
Had it been a reflection of a cloud? The sky was a flawless caerulean canopy; no cloud to be seen. Had it been your own breath steaming through the frosty glare? You knew better.
You felt an opening in your heart. You smiled again. This was to be your garden now -- hers and yours. You had seen some old photographs of the house in the library. Perhaps you can research it. Perhaps you could restore it.
You turned and hurried back through the garden gate. You stomped across the yard, around the house, down the length of the terrace, back around and down the steps to the snow covered drive. I had just stepped out onto the porch. You stopped at the bottom of the stairs as I descended to you.
"Ready for our walk, Daddy?" You took my leather glove in your mittened hand.
"Yes, darling. Where are you taking us?"
"Well, part of the care and feeding of Daddy is to take him for walks now and then," You giggled. "But I need to pick up a book I left on campus, then let's get some coffee."
"Very well, little girl. That sounds delightful."
We walked along the drive to the open front gate and out into the old town streets and headed down the hill through the neighborhood of brick row houses. The roads and sidewalks had been cleared of the snow and we past the pharmacy and shops, the bank, and the luncheonette, turning up hill and onto the university campus.
You held my hand all the way. You talked about your studies, your impending exams, your teachers, your friends. Some of the kids watched us as we passed, a few girls waved and you waved back. They watched you holding my hand and wondered aloud. We climbed the winding roads and, as we passed the old university administration building, a car slowed as it approached us.
The driver's side window glided down and, to your surprise, the university president greeted me. You had only seen him when he addressed the school at official events.
"Thank you for your assistance with the new school theater. It's been much appreciated."
"Sure thing, Benjamin."
"We so rarely see you anymore. Please stop by my office. We can talk about your ideas for the music department recording facility."
"Next week?"
"Better make it after the holidays, OK?"
"Yup, sure thing."
"Is this one of our students?"
"Yes, and my very dear friend."
"Music major?"
"Physics," I said.
He raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps we could solicit your help with a new particle collider, then." He laughed. "You'll both come to tea sometime and we can make the arrangements."
I laughed and turned to you. "Would you like that?"
You were tongue-tied and just nodded. I chuckled and said, "Yes, that'll be great, Ben. We'd love it."
The window glided back up and the car went on its way.
It didn't take us long to grab your book. It was nice to be in the old building where you took English Lit 372, advanced for third semester. The halls smelled of the steam heat radiators and as the hour turned, kids bustled out of the classrooms, pushing past us on their busy ways.
We stood there in the hall for a little while as they pressed around us. You were holding my arm and your book. You were struck by the contrast between what your life had been and what it was becoming.
You had been just like one of these kids, but as of these last few months -- just six months -- you had stepped into a world you couldn't have imagined before. From the moment you saw my little hand-written ad on the bulletin board of the Student Center, your life had taken a different trajectory. It had gone from precocious school girl with full scholarship to -- something else. In a way, it was like a dream now, standing here near the end of your first sophomore semester clutching my arm.
You looked up at me and said, "I love you, Daddy," and stood on your toes to unselfconsciously, briefly, but unmistakably tenderly, kiss my mouth. A couple of the kids -- girls -- noticed and whispered and pointed to friends -- look -- the girl and the old guy kissing in the hall.
"I love you too, darling."
My life had changed too. Oh -- I was still busy with music. Even in what I'd thought of as my retirement, it kept me quite occupied. That wasn't different. It's that I was also very busy with you.
You were an all pervasive influence. And I was in love -- a completely miserable state that even at my middle age gave rise to inconvenient waves of insecurity and doubt in coexistence with the heat and desire and attachment that I'd grown comfortable living without.
My song writing had changed in reflection. My publisher had remarked about it, "You haven't written like this in more than a decade -- you're on fire, man." Yeah -- on fire. Somebody get me some cold water, quick.
"I didn't know you two knew each other."
It was your English Lit professor. She was your favorite and you were suddenly flummoxed at the greeting.
She was obviously taking in the way you were clutching my arm. Had she seen the kiss? You stammered, "Hello, professor."
I went to extend my right hand to hers, but realizing it was being jealously guarded by your grasp, I chuckled and gave her my left. "It's good to see you, Karen."
Her eyes sparkled but she posed an inquisitive expression as she looked from me to you and back. "We've missed you." She said to me. "Shall we get together sometime? Dinner?"
"Of course."
"Charles will be glad. Bring my student with you." She turned to you. "She's one of my favorites. Great promise in this one." She smiled at you and you swelled, beaming back at her. You were proud of your academic work and your favorite professor was complimenting you in front of me. Your two passions were physics and writing. Oh - and, of course, there was a third passion: sex.
The hall had nearly emptied out. "Thank you, professor," you said, and you grabbed me and pulled me away down the hall while I waved goodbye over my shoulder.
As we made our way down the now empty hallway, you could hear one of the other professor saying, "Wasn't that... "
And your English Lit professor say, "Yes, it was."
"And that's a student on his arm?"
"Yes it is."
"But..."
