A View From The Barn

Everyone is a consenting adult over 18.

First off. I'm a writer. This is how I make my living. I've had a decent education and then some early success, and I've been successful, in that I can buy a house in a decent city, my wife has a good job and together we live pretty comfortably. Then last year, I wrote a short story for a national publication and it wasn't just optioned to become a film, it was purchased via a bidding process through my agent that netted me six figures. High six figures. Which inspired my wife to realize this might be a great time to get a divorce before I spent any of it. I have to admit, this was a good idea on her part. We sold the house, split everything and moved on. Well, she moved on. I moved back home. I grew up on a small farm. Smallish. It was about ten acres. Mainly citrus trees. We had some horses, my mother was brilliant with them. They were her pets. This was her parent's home before her and before them her grandparents. We lived in a small house at the far end when I was a kid and then everyone moved up a level when my great grandparents died, then when both my grandparents died we eventually moved into the main house. My father wasn't really built for farm work, he was an architect and a good one. He died in a plane crash several years ago now. He would fly to meet with clients all over the state, flew himself, being up in the air was his happy place, I guess. Well, we hope he was happy when his plane disappeared somewhere over the Sierra's. He was never found. I wouldn't say we were close nor were we distant. He just wasn't a very warm person. Nor was he cold. He just was. I think kids weren't really his thing, which is why I am an only child I suppose. I grieved for him of course, and my mother was devastated. They were devoted to each other. They had celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary not long before. Renewed their vows. Went on a brief second honeymoon and then he was gone. She leased out the groves and traveled for about a year. Just keep moving was what she attempted to do, don't stay still and think about it for too long. From what I could tell that had worked for her pretty well. She seemed fairly well adjusted to being a widow at 50 years old. Now at 56 she seemed strong and active. I don't think she wanted to date, or find a new partner. She had the farm and her horses. I guess if I had to describe her, I would have you picture an Isabella Rossellini, but Greek. And with long hair. But striking like that. An unusual beauty. She was someone you stared at across the table. And she was definitely one who filled my fantasies when those urges became very insistent when I hit puberty. But I grew out of that. Went off to Reed College. Got a degree in English and planned to teach and write. Never really got around to the teaching part. Like I said. I got lucky early. I had met Claire in college. She was everything I could dream of, nothing like my mom. She was Irish and free of spirit. Wild. I was attracted to that I think because I took after my mother and wasn't much of a risk taker. Claire liked rollercoasters. And jumping out of planes. You get the picture. I believe I was the yin to her yang but I guess I was wrong. She got bored. A husband who locked himself in a room and typed all day didn't float her boat after a while I guess.

Well, that's the backstory. Now in my early thirties I was living back at home. Single. And without any real inspiration or purpose. I took over my father's office above the barn. He had created an open space, rural but with a modern feel. It was perfect. A writer's dream. If I had any ideas I would probably be enjoying it.

My mom gave me lots of space. My old room was at the far opposite end of the house but more often than not I slept in my new office, tv on. Staring into space most days. I am not one of those writers who like to write their pain. My creative space was peaceful, calm, no emotional turmoil. No real world creeping in and ruining the flow. I wrote in a cocoon of, well, it's hard to describe...I would call it my own small nirvana of sensuality.

But now I was in the abyss and there was no way out. And that wouldn't be such a big deal other than I had lost half my money in the divorce and the commission my agent secured for me was on deadline and I had nothing. Nothing. Not even a title. If I didn't meet the contracted deadlines I could ask for an extension but the pay took a hit by percentage for every week I was late. Not good.

And this is where I find myself. Having dinner on Sunday with my mother. And clearly agitated.

"You ok?"

I just shrugged and shook my head like, not really wanting to talk about this.

"You don't seem ok."

"I'm fine."

"You were married what, three years?"

"Are we really going to talk about this?"

"There's just a formula you should be aware of."

"What's that?"

"You won't be truly moved on from a break-up until the half life. So in a year and a half you will have completely healed from this. And it's already been six months. So one year from right now, you will have moved on."

"Well, we were together a couple years before the marriage though."

"Two years then."

"Sounds promising and not very helpful in the moment."

"You can't rush it. It's a cliche but only time can heal."

"Well, time is the enemy at the moment as my deadline fast approaches on this screenplay. "

"Screenplay?"

"Yes, my agent secured this deal for me based on the movie that was made from my story in (publication deleted.)"

" I didn't know you wrote screenplays."

"This would be my first."

"And it's not going well?"

"Not going at all."

"You spend hours in your father's office every day."

Yeah, he shouldn't have installed cable up there, baseball season has been much more interesting to me than typing."

"Should I cancel it?"

"Please don't."

There is bit of silence as we continue our meal.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know. I could go on a trip and leave you here alone if you needed."

"Why would you think that I needed to be alone?"

"I don't know. You seem terribly in control of your emotions, you need to release grief you must be feeling and if my presence is a detriment to that I can make myself scarce for a while. I have been wanted to head back to Europe and see some friends I made in Denmark. "

"Really? Friends in Denmark? Or friend?"

"Friends. I am not looking for a new relationship. I have the farm, and you and I am quite content, thank you very much."

"You are still a young woman."

"Nice of you to say. But I am a woman who doesn't mind at all being alone. Prefer it actually. "

"That's kind of my problem as well."

"That you are alone."

"That I don't mind it."

"I would say that you do."

"Why would you say that?"

"You aren't writing. You've been writing since you could walk it seems. Crayon marks everywhere. You've always been a writer. Now you aren't writing."

"Because I am alone?"

"What else is different?"

I thought about that for a while as we continued our dinner. Maybe I didn't like being alone. But I guess I wasn't really alone.

"You're here."

"What's that?"

"I'm not alone. You're here."

"But I am not your muse."

"How do you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said I have been writing since I could walk. Something inspired that. Claire was only the last few years. But you are the constant."

"Did you sell any of those childhood scribblings? I wasn't your muse doll, I was your mother."

She drained the last of her wine and rose from the table. I noticed her then. The dark long sleeved henley shirt hid what I knew to be lovely breasts. Alabaster. But it was the jeans that I really noticed. How they hugged her hips. Accented the curve of her behind. I dropped my eyes but I had the sense she had caught me looking. I didn't make eye contact as she passed me but when I glanced at the kitchen when she moved in there, there was a distinct smile there. A mysterious smile. Pleased but wary if I had to describe it. And curious. Her smile seemed curious.

"Are you writing tonight?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you write at night or during the day?"

"Depends on the story really."

"Huh. That makes a little sense, I guess. What stories do you write at night? Mysteries? Romances?"

"Romantic mysteries."

She laughed at that.

"Well good luck tonight. You should stop at that glass of wine or you will be sleepy. Done with dinner?"

She came over to grab my plate. "You don't need to do that."

"You have a mystery romance to write. Or is it a romantic mystery?"

"Only time will tell, I guess." She kissed me on the top of the head as she took my dishes to the sink. "Good night, mother."

"Mother? Are we being formal now? Is there a mother in your story?"

"Maybe. Have to start somewhere."

"We all do. Good night sweetheart."

I headed out the back and to the barn. That was certainly a different ending to the evening that I didn't expect. She seemed playful. Teasing. Definitely a different vibe from her normal demure self.

I sat at my desk, clicked the small desk light on and turned on my computer. Staring at an empty page is one of the least inspiring moments. It makes writing feel like you work in a coal mine. I stood and paced for a while and decided to light a candle. There were a few at the alcove at the door. As I headed there I was no longer illuminated and the windows no longer resembled mirrors. I looked out into the night sky above the house to see the stars when the light came on in the bathroom nearest my mother's room. I noticed that the window had been cracked open about half way and I could see a portion of the mirror. That moment you feel. How do I describe it. My heart simultaneously stopped and raced at the same time. I knew I should walk away. This was an illicit moment. I couldn't be a voyeur to my own mother. But I remained still. Could she see up here? No, the window blocked off the top part of anyone who would be standing in there. I stared and stared. Then she walked into the bathroom and she turned to where I knew the bath was. Just out of my vision. She must be turning the shower on I hoped. A late night shower. She turned and walked out of the room again and I remained deathly still. I tried to look at my hand to see if was reflecting any light. Was I visible? I thought not. So I remained like a statue. Waiting for the goddess.

And there she was. The lower half at least. I caught a glimpse of a dark bush as she brushed past the open window. Her hips framing the v between her legs would be an image that would be seared into my memory permanently. In the moment I considered getting it as a tattoo so I could glance at it. My heart was racing as she was now clearly in the shower and I knew she would be coming out soon. I was rock hard. The rise in me was caused more by the moment of secretly seeing a nude woman who had no idea I could see her. I squeezed myself with my hand and wondered if I dared remove my pants. I could barely think straight. I was going to masturbate as soon as this was over either way. But there seemed to be something incredibly erotic to me about stroking myself while watching my mother secretly. So I lowered my pants and slowly began stroking myself. I was dripping so I didn't need any lubricant. This was so surprising. My mom was beautiful, but this wasn't really ever me. Well maybe at one point but I didn't have a candle for my mom permanently lit. That might change I thought.

It had been a few moments and I stared at the space where I could see. I didn't even want to blink my eyes. She could walk past so quickly.

And then there she was. Drying her self with a towel. Her back was to me and I had a view of one of the most voluptuous asses I had ever seen. I almost lost it then. But in the mirror I noticed I could see her front. The v. Wet now. Soaked. And her drying with a towel. She wasn't moving from there. She turned on the sink and I knew then that she was brushing her teeth. Please do it the right way I prayed. Two minutes. Two minutes of her ass jiggling with the motion of the toothbrush. It was a perfect mix of firm and soft. It was everything any man could ever hope to stand behind. Her long black hair almost to her waist. Then she turned and the light went off. I turned and leaned against one of the beams and finished myself off finally gasping for the air my lungs had been waiting for as I held my breath I think for that entire time.

I grabbed some paper towels and cleaned my mess. I was exhilarated. I went and sat at my computer. My mind was racing. Is this how Hitchcock came up with Rear Window. I was tempted to look up pictures of his mom if any existed. I resisted.

But then I wrote. And wrote. The keys clattered away. I was unconscious and channeling something that came from a creative well every artist dreams of, just trying to type as fast as I heard it. I could barely keep up and it wasn't until I heard the roosters crowing did I realize I had been writing all night. I crawled over to the sofa and fell into a deep sleep.

It was well into the afternoon when my mother shook me awake.

"Are you ok?"

"What? Mom? What time is it?"

"It's just three."

"Really?"

"I was starting to get concerned. What's going on?"

"I need some coffee."

"If you have coffee this late you'll never get back to sleep."

"That's my hope. The muse came to me last night." I felt a little pang of guilt in that I couldn't tell her the muse was herself and that she didn't intend for me to see her.

"Oh good, I am glad. Your face looks so much more relaxed than last night. I could see all the tension in your face at dinner."

"I was definitely feeling that. I am not out of the woods yet. Long way to go, but I made a decent start of it."

"That must be a relief. What do you think caused it?"

"I think it's better to not examine it too closely."

She nodded at that.

"You'll have to make your own coffee and breakfast or lunch I guess. I went into town while you were dead asleep and bought some bags of mulch. I want to get it around the roses and the flower beds before it gets dark. Do you want to help?"

"Sure. Let me grab a bite and I will join you."

"Really? I hadn't expected you to say yes. You aren't really the gardening type."

"Some sun will do me good I think."

She smiled and went. I went downstairs. Started the coffee. I headed to my room to take a quick shower and change while it brewed. There was nothing quick to eat in this house. No hot pockets. I looked around and realized she didn't even own a microwave. I grabbed some fruit and a hunk of bread and cheese, put it on a plate and headed out to where she was on her hands and knees spreading mulch. I couldn't help but stare at her ass. Even in the overalls she wore I could see what curves lay underneath. What has got into me? A fifty six year old woman in overalls and a t-shirt mulching roses and I was getting a hard on. I quickly finished the fruit and bread and dropped to my hands and knees beside her before my dick was noticeable in my shorts.

"Leave a little bit of space around the base, it will weaken the shaft of the plant if it gets wet and just rests against it."

That sentence was too much to contemplate in that moment. But I was going to remember it and type it over and over again tonight.

We worked like this for over an hour. Both of us drenched in sweat from the sun and the exertion.

As I stood she reached behind her and grabbed her back and winced.

"Did you hurt your back?"

"No. Just stiff. I should have stood up a couple of times but we were going so well, I wanted to finish. Here, help me up."

As I gave her my hand and she rose up on one knee I saw that I could see down the side of her overalls. And I saw nothing but skin and her pubis. She wasn't wearing anything underneath those. I glanced away was she stood up all the way.

"Thank you. An old woman always needs a helping hand."

"Is that so? Do you know any older women?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she laughed.

I didn't really know what that meant so I didn't respond.

"You didn't seem to eat much."

"No, I work best a little hungry. I am going to try and get a couple hours of writing in."

"Really? I thought the muse found you at night."

"Like I said. You never know when she might show up."

"Ahhh, so the muse is a she?"

"Always."

"Interesting. Well I am going to clean up and then start on dinner. Six? Is that enough muse time?"

"If it isn't I will come down and grab something later."

"Okay. Dinner at six."

She left then and I headed back up to the barn office. These little glimpses. Had they always been there and I just never noticed? No idea. Surely I would have noticed. Right? Your mom flashes her bush and you would notice.

But the computer again was like a banshee screaming. Page after page burned out of my fingers at a pace I couldn't recall ever working at.

I heard a bell.

Is that a dinner bell? Is it six already? The way I was writing at this moment I would generally let nothing get between the writing and me. But I was hungry. And she was down there.

She surprised me and had a lovely dinner by candlelight. I was surprised and said so. "Why not a romantic dinner for my writer son. I am so proud of you. i know I am not your muse but we could pretend for a little while."

"Pretend? How do you mean."

"Oh I am just being silly. Do you want another glass of wine."

We bantered our way through dinner as I stole glances at her. She wore a light white dress. Nothing fancy. But she made it seem so elegant and sexy. Effortless.

"Thank you for taking the time to have dinner with me even though I know you would rather be working. Head on up. I'll get these."

I smiled and gave her a hug.

"A hug? What inspired that?"

"You did. You make my heart happy."

She blushed.

"Maybe I would make a good muse to someone after all."

I smiled and left to the barn. All I could think about all night was I was trying to discern whether she had showered after working in the garden. Please. Let it be a no.

The muse was definitely not there as I was distracted by the wait. So I just stared at the script and kept my peripheral vision for when the kitchen light went out. And then I moved back to my spot where I could see the window. And I could see it was open even more than last night. Surely she had already showered and had opened it to let the steam from the room. I was out of luck.

But then the light came on and she entered the bathroom fully dressed. I could see all of her now. She was standing at the mirror and doing something to her eyebrow. Plucking it? Then as my breath stopped she pulled the dress up over her head in one motion and tossed it out the door. I dropped my pants as I watched her slide first her panties off and then undo her bra. And there they were. Perfection. Grapefruit sized globes. Small, pale aureolas surrounded pink nipples that looked like perfectly new pencil erasers. I wanted to touch them with every fiber of my being. She continued to stand at the mirror and seemed to be appraising herself. Then I watched her reach and grab the lotion that was just out of sight and pump her hand full of it. She applied it liberally over her breasts. Teasing herself it seemed. Then her legs. Stomach and then that gorgeous ass got plenty of attention. Then the light went out. I finished myself quickly again and got back to work. It was the rooster again that told me to go to sleep. But I had the wherewithal to head down into the house and to my real bed. I fell into a deep sleep.

It went on like this for several nights. Sometimes just the lotion. Sometimes the shower. Sometimes both. I even managed to figure out a way to snap a couple of photos without the screen lighting up my face. They were blurry from so far away. Where were Dad's binoculars?