Firm Hands

I'd been divorced for... a while... and winter was upon me. My life, see, is just a simple routine. 5:45 a.m., get dressed to go work out. 6 a.m., meet my friend Jerri. 6:45 a.m., back home, hop in the shower and get ready for work. 7:30 a.m., wake up my brother & son and get them up and moving. 8:15 a.m., well you get the idea.

It's always late by the time I am off work, 7 p.m. or later. Out of town I drive to get my son from his dad's, his dad and step mom's to be precise. I have it down to a science, two minutes flat I am out there, my boy's in the car & we're gone. No fuss, no awkwardness. Just a honk of the horn & hopefully no arguments or insults.

Last week, the routine took a big detour. A detour through my rear tire. Ex on the front porch shouting, cell ringing. Patch of ice backing out of his driveway, piece of junk from an old car he never got around to throwing out. Great! No fights tonight, please, no fights. God do I hate him. Mathematics textbook and my son shouting he forgot his book.

"It's flat. Pull it into the shop & I'll change it," my ex said.

Three minutes, well over three minutes. Before the engine is off, my son is out of the cab and running back into their house. No way am I following. No way in hell. So, I get out of the car and listen to my ex tossing tools and junk around behind me. No conversation. No looks in the eye. Plenty of distance at all times.

The old tire is off, tossed in back, the spare is down on the ground. He reaches back for the tools, just out of reach. Just like back then. I toe the shiny silver tool towards his grubby, thick hand and watch as his fingers wrap around the handle. He probably assumed it was there all along.

"Thanks," he growled.

His husky, hoarse voice always made him seem more threatening.

"He really likes the new snowmobile," I said.

Not to him. I'm not having a conversation with him. I hate the snowmobile and the four wheeler and all the things that can hurt my son.

"Yeah," he barked back. Then a laugh.

I turn to look away from the damn thing and at him.

"What?"

"He likes it."

I stared at the back of his head and waited for more, knowing I'd never hear it. Instead, I just walked over to his work bench, the work bench I bought him three years ago for Christmas. Pulled myself up on top and sat near the electric heater his dad gave him the first year we were married. Lots of nights I spent out here talking to him about my day, my life. So many memories. Awkard. I swallowed hard and wanted to grab the bottle of diet soda from my cab, but, I didn't. I just sat there, thinking. Choking.

The sound of metal on the concrete startled me, enough so I jumped and he shot me a peculiar look. He walked over and pushed the lever on the hand cleaner, dry. He always was out of hand cleaner. Always had his beer and his tobacco. Never had time for the things that mattered. God I hate this son of a bitch. And I love him. You killed me but I love you. Bastard.

"You're all done. Better get that tire fixed tomorrow."

I nodded and watched him dig a hand into the torn open container of hand cleaner.

"What do I owe ya?"

He shrugged. Always shrugging or nodding or grunting. Just talk!

"Tits are gettin' big," he grumbled.

The nerve. He would have changed every inch of me if he could have when I was his "old lady". Now he leaned against the bench beside me and stared. Hazel eyes, round face. Dirty hands. I looked to the doorway and saw no one. Not a thing. And I raised my top. Why did I just raise my top??!!

The air was cold on my breasts as they fell from the cups of my bra, nipples hardening in an instant. He stared, almost salivated I think. They were getting bigger, it was winter. His hands reached out, like an old instinct, and he took them. I moaned just enough to tell on myself. He scoffed and moved in front of me.

Rough hands, gritty and a bit dirty, warm and coarse all over my soft, full breasts. He kneaded them like they were bread dough, working them in his hands until they bulged around his fingers. Tighter, harder, and I moaned again. I wasn't going to let him in me again. Didn't I have every right? He could cheat on her with me, just like he cheated on me with her. I curled my legs underneath the bench and he kept rubbing.

He squeezed and lifted them to stare at my erect nipples, covering them with his thumbs and grunting. He was hard and ready. I was wet, it had been so long. So many months. Not since Jessi's Halloween party. But no, I wasn't going to have my son come out to see this. I leaned back and he let go, reaching for his zipper.

"I can't," I swore. "I'll give you the money for fixing the tire."

"That was good enough," he blurted out and turned away.

I covered myself again and adjusted the cups in shame, still heated and even wanting more myself.

"Thanks," I said as he rounded the corner. No reply. No nothing. A minute later my son was back in view and we drove away. To our home. Our home without him.