Behind Closed Blinds

Again, technically "non-erotic" but with a healthy bit of flirtation and chemistry to help things along. Thanks, everybody, and no less those who have enjoyed the whole series so far.

Finger-blasted, raw and unedited, for either your pleasure or infuriation, because I'm diverse like that.

1

'Have you been thinking about what you'll do?' my mother asked. Her voice practically dripped with sympathy in the silence. And the silence had hung so thick in the air for so long that she oozed like honey into my addled mind. Soothing in a way I cannot describe, but also in a way that treated the symptoms but not the cause.

It had been four days now. I was undeniably depressed. I lay there on the plush leather living room couch, one forearm covering my eyes, protecting me from the harsh light of day that had been a friend until the day I had gone to confront Derek. And that had been my fight, not hers. My responsibility, not hers.

I cleared my throat to speak. It came out as dry and sore as I currently felt. 'I've been thinking how stupid I've been.'

'I don't believe that for a minute. Don't forget the way she treated you.'

'I haven't forgotten,' I replied, dragging out the words like they hurt me to even think of.

'I just don't want you getting dragged back into all of that. That's all,' she said. 'Whatever you decide, don't think you can fix what you didn't break to begin with. This is not your fault.'

'You're right about that,' I replied. 'But it's on my conscience that I didn't know. If I'd known I might have known the right thing to set her straight, at the very least sent her back to her parents to take care of. Something like that!'

'And don't you think she'd have gone back herself, had she wanted that?'

'Apparently she already did,' I answered, unsure or not of whether I had told her or left that part out. 'Didn't end well.'

'I don't doubt it,' mum said.

In the silence after I heard her shuffle out of her shoes, kick them to the floor, and then practically tiptoe across the laminate wooded floor to where I lay on the couch. The arm behind my head compressed with her bodyweight then, and then her fingertips began to trace a line across my brow.

'Just don't mistake conscience for responsibility,' she near whispered. 'I had the feeling long ago that Derek was always a control freak, that Margot was terrified of doing anything other than she was told. If you think about it like that, considering what you told me about this old boyfriend of hers...'

'Matthew!'

'If you think about it, all things now considered, their help is probably the last thing she wants.'

'So she had the nerve to come back to me, acting like I owed her a second chance, for all she was supposed to have done for me,' I contemplated bitterly. And then, 'that's the part that still makes no sense to me.'

'It seems inconsistent with everything else, yes,' mum agreed.

'So what don't I know?' I asked.

'I'm with you,' was the reply, and seemed double-edged. Yes, my mum was with me, all the way, in every way. In mind, body, spirit, and completely in the dark. With my free hand I reached out and took a hold of the hand she was touching me with, and blindly I brought it to my lips and kissed it.

'Maybe bring it down to irrationality? Desperate self-preservation?'

'That's the thing, mum,' I said tightly. 'Is that really her fault, or what's become of her after all that was said and done to her? Is it really irrational to be the way your experiences have shaped you?'

'I think you might be jumping the gun there, hun,' mum warned. 'The only way she's ever helping herself is by seeking professional help.'

I let go of her hand, sat up with a creak, a crack, and a pained groan, as all my bones and joints remembered that they belonged to a living, functioning human being. Without missing a beat my mother slid down into the vacant space beside me, warm with my body heat, and we wrapped ourselves up in each other.

She ruffled my hair, kissed my cheek. I squeezed her closer, responded to her kiss, bringing my lips around to the corner of her mouth. Before skin touched skin again, her lips met mine and parted.

It was a chaste kiss at first. Well, motherly, meaning nothing other than love and reassurance. But then our eyes met, hers smiling, and we connected again, this time with more of a hint of the transcendent love we now shared. Back and forth those kisses went, as did our hands -- in each others', and to where else skin could touch upon skin.

'These things take time,' she assured me once more. 'Don't stagnate or you'll be exactly where it left you last when the time comes to deal with it. Move on, do you understand me?'

Taking both her hands in mine, to express simply what had since possessed me, I promised her, 'I already have though, haven't I?'

2

I think it's true what some people say, that no matter how good you get at anything you get nowhere without luck. Some people have it and some people don't. Some of the most intelligent people I have known have gotten nowhere in life while others seem to have life handed to them on a silver fucking platter.

Me, I don't currently know where I stand. I've thought myself unbelievably lucky in life and then deliberately had the rug pulled from underneath my feet, but I've managed to dust myself off and move on with a smile.

Still, can I call my experiences sobering, since I was blinded by success but not drunk on it? No, I don't think so. I think that luck has played a great part in how the chips have landed outside of my bad experiences, and maybe also in the fact that those experiences served to open my eyes, but that intellect and purpose would help me to make the most of it.

Here I was, entering my late twenties, living at home with my mother, out of a job, not even wanting to count on that son of a bitch Derek for a reference to future employers. I had money, I didn't want to count on the department for work and pensions to prop me up. I wanted to find my own opportunities and I didn't care how little it'd pay off so long as I could say that I'd done it for myself.

The best way, I figured, was to find an opportunity to help others. I was considering maybe working for a charity. Things were so bad right now that charities were competing with each other no different to supermarkets and fast food brands -- like overlapping caulk in a crumbling old wall.

Mum was adamant that I don't try too hard so soon, that I keep one foot in the familiar while dipping my toes into new experiences. I had a lot of free time on my hands though so I visited our old community centre to see what was free to use, and joined a Tuesday-weekly guitar group, and a writer's club, Thursday-weekly.

My music teacher in high school claimed that I was a natural at the guitar, all those years ago. I'd started to take lessons at home during my college years. Why I stopped came down to two excuses eventually. For one, I had the talent to learn easy songs, but rhythm seemed all I could do. The stuff I wanted to learn frustrated me to the point of stagnation. Secondly, as my studies started to demand more of me, as did the future, my hobbies got pushed aside and my social life became my second priority.

As for the writing, I had always enjoyed playing with words when I was younger. People say that you've either good with numbers or with language. Whereas there was no doubt that I could have done a lot better verbally with self-expression, also negotiating with certain difficult people, I could always write what I couldn't say when it mattered most.

With something to occupy myself better in my spare time, it was a happy medium considering what my mother was suggesting -- not stagnating, moving on, not putting myself in a position to be used, if such a thing became likely.

And typically my confrontation with my ex's father proved not to be the last I'd hear from him, after all, which I had expected, and dreaded all the while.

3

The following Wednesday was dull and wet, felt more like the slumbering kind of Sunday in the backstreets when sandwiched between bank holidays. So far my friendship with Elaine had remained purely textual. She had sent a few encouraging words to support me during my little depression and I had replied sparingly.

Elaine being at work most days, and having family visits or social events here and there, didn't compliment where I currently was. Typical excuses, being that we're neighbours, but with me now filling up my time with various other activities, the opportunity to socialise just wasn't to be rushed right now.

I think we both wanted to become accustomed to each other in person rather than with a digital buffer zone between us, as it would have felt bizarre -- knowing what we both knew about each other and our dynamic with my mother Sara -- getting sexual beyond the odd flirtatious joke.

After all Elaine had been our neighbour for so long, I had known her since before I came of age. Just as I couldn't let go of the fact that Sara was my mother as our relationship matured into something both sexual and romantic, it would have been alienating for all of us, to dismiss the past in its entirety.

Regardless of the weather, I knew that Elaine would be home that day, and so gave myself reason to venture out into the world. And that reason was simply beginning as I meant to move on.

I left the car at home that morning and took a train up to the retail park, dropping into TK Maxx and a few other untypical places. I bought a basket and filled it with luxury scented candles, soaps, and sweets that I'd gathered she would enjoy, based on everything I'd picked up from my chatty mum's conversations.

After noon I rang her doorbell and stood in the rain with her gift basket, with a silly lopsided smirk on my face, and was greeted with the loudest, 'Hiiiii!'

'Come in out of the rain,' Elaine hasted, tucking herself behind the open door to allow me room. Now that her bare tanned legs were just about out of sight, I could keep my gaze at eye-level. I might have caught her either jumping in or our of the bath. She was wrapped up in a snug-looking white terry cloth robe.

'I'm not interrupting I hope,' I said, 'I took a chance you were home. Mum's at work.'

With Elaine's eyes now fixated on the basket of fancy goods I cradled in my hands, I held out my offering and assured that I wouldn't get in her hair if she had things to do. 'I just never took the opportunity yet to thank you for keeping mum company. She's told me you like to spoil her.'

'Not at all, you're welcome, thank you,' she gushed, as I closed the door for her, hands now free to do as I pleased.

'Oooh, Sand + Fog, I love these candles,' she marvelled, though with a hint of hesitation. 'They're not cheap either.'

'Neither am I,' I chuckled as Elaine reached up on her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek. I inhaled as she did and ascertained that she had already bathed. She smelled of macadamia soap and hair conditioner, clean and sweet.

'Anyway I mean it, I'm sorry I didn't do this sooner,' I apologised heartily. 'The past week I've had my head up my arse. I don't think mum knew what to do with me.'

'It looks like she knew exactly what to do,' Elaine said disarmingly, then offered me that long overdue cup of tea.

If there was any awkwardness on either of our parts I'm certain it was all mine. Upon following Elaine into the kitchen I was now also following her lead conversationally, feeling a little directionless. I wasn't here to seduce her or even to deliberately get the ball rolling. I wanted to feel her out, reconnect, and I suppose maybe see where she was within herself, at the most.

'This is great, thank you so much,' she said as she carefully placed the gift basket out of the way. Thinking twice, she took out a box of French cookies I'd added to the pile, and tore them open for us to share over tea before asking what I was doing with myself.

When I told her that I was now in a writer's club, she seemed to perk up to another level entirely. 'I didn't know you liked to write!'

'I was... always good at it, I think,' I stammered. 'I used to enjoy it when I was younger. I wanted to get back into it and see if it might do me some good.'

'I love writing,' she beamed as a low rumble began to sound from the belly of the electric kettle.

'I know,' I wanted to say, but wondered if it might make things awkward.

'Other girls wanted to be Barbie, or ran around with toy prams, pretending to be their own mothers,' she recalled and couldn't help but laugh. 'I wanted to be the old woman from Murder She Wrote.'

It was my turn to laugh now as her curveball completely threw me off. 'Jessica Fletcher?!'

'Yes!'

'I loved those shows. It was Columbo for me,' I confessed.

'You wanted to be Columbo?' Elaine chuckled dryly.

'Ha! No, I wanted to be Magnum PI.'

'It was those tiny shorts, wasn't it?'

The kettle was now simmering. Elaine had a breakfast bar in the kitchen with a couple of tall stools, that we both mounted to nibble at cookies. I was on her right side and couldn't stop stealing glances at her, and I didn't care whether she noticed or not.

Frankly I'd had no shame in many of my teenage masturbatory fantasies being focused on her. Although that was a long time ago, it's not something you forget when you're in my position and she knows things that would have the village folk carrying burning torches and pitchforks.

'Your hair really is awesome,' I told her, though previously had already. 'It really compliments you.'

The shorn side of her head was as fine as suede up close. She ran a hand over it and smirked, accentuating the deep dimples either side of her mouth.

'I might keep it a while.'

'You should. I haven't seen it suit anyone else any near as well as it does you,' I bumbled onward.

'Flirt!' Elaine jabbed playfully. 'So what do you want to write?'

I thought about it maybe for the first time since I had signed up for the community group, and felt myself become a little flustered, to my surprise.

'Err, I hadn't actually given it any thought. I think they just pick a theme and let people go with it,' I explained, and then wondered if Elaine had deliberately put my inner thoughts under the spotlight. 'Any suggestions?'

Beside me Elaine hummed and to me it sounded mischievous. The kettle finally boiled, that gave her a convenient cue. Slipping down off her stool, she circled the bar and began soaking the teabags in our cups, while maybe thinking about what she wanted to say, and contrarily what she would say.

'You might read something of mine sometime,' she said slowly; 'food for thought?!'

I let the silence build and build, gazing at her, taking all of her in, as she stirred our drinks, swirling steam with her magic fingers of legend. She glanced over at me with a hint of a smile, implied mischief greater in presence now, and I knew that was my cue.

'I already have. Food for thought indeed,' I said and felt the corners of my mouth tugging, my teeth baring. 'You know my mum, caring is sharing.'

Another dry chuckle escaped Elaine, throaty and husky, and so far the sexist thing yet to come out of her mouth.

'The thing is, about that,' she responded, and then a purposeful pause, 'there's writing fantasy and then there's living it, aaaand...'

'Why write it when you're living it?' I asked, hoping to have the answer to her question. Elaine flicked both eyebrows in response, her own teeth baring as her sexy little smirk stretched into a wide and yet bashful smile.

'Well?' I asked, 'did it stop you?'

'Oh god no,' she replied, sliding my cup of tea over to me, before making her way barefoot back to her own seat beside me. 'You haven't read my new stuff.'

'How do you know?' I asked, so full of excitement inside and now so flushed in the cheeks that I doubt it showed that the first sip of tea had burned my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

Turning to face me, Elaine nibbled playfully at a cookie, and I caught her just as her eyes were giving me the once over. 'Because I haven't had the guts to publish it yet.'

I turned fully on my stool to face her in kind. 'Can I ask you a personal question?'

'You can,' she said expectantly but not without hesitation. Then she pouted, but the corners of her lips remained upturned. 'I might not answer though.'

'What does it feel like, showing somebody your feelings that way -- when you wrote that story for Sara?'

Silence!

Eyes locked, time had momentarily lost all consistency. If it weren't for the steam swirling up from the brims of our cups, I might have believed that time had shunted to a complete standstill. Then finally Elaine heavily breathed her response, as though it had been a weight on her chest, and I believe that I had felt the weight lift my very self.

Two simple words: 'The naughtiest!'

I smiled, though I felt my eyes boring holes into hers now. Could this have become something sexual right here and now? Possibly, but I didn't think it was the right time. It seemed that chemistry was something we both had a firm grip of, and it seemed right to give it a garden bed, let it build up and grow wild of its own natural accord.

I liked the idea that sometime in the future, I or my mother, or both of us would ask Elaine if she wanted to take things further. There had to be something there first, other than base desires, for it to be safe and meaningful.

'It was definitely the naughtiest,' I agreed, almost at a whisper, and firmly stifled a laugh as the memory of her literary skills and hidden desires exposed returned with clarity.

'So far!' she corrected me, and then added, 'there was the danger, as well, of you finding out and not taking it well, which I didn't want.'

'Actually I couldn't be happier,' I confessed, which disarmed whatever doubts might have remained by this point. 'You've made her the happiest I saw her in years.'

Cautiously sipping her tea, Elaine was careful not to splutter her reply. 'Just me?'

'Well now I think she's just spoiled,' I half-joked. 'But I think if things hadn't taken that turn between you, things wouldn't be as they are now, and she wouldn't be as open and forthcoming and... emboldened... as she is now.'

'I'm going to have to have a think to myself about that,' Elaine laughed.

'And I'd be depressed and living in an empty house, hating myself and being bitter at life,' I admitted more candidly. 'So really, thank you. Keep being you and doing what you do.'

'And you, Steven,' Elaine thanked me in the best possible way I could imagine.

4

I guess I couldn't have hoped for better, that my phone began to ring once I had drained my cup, kissed Elaine goodbye, and returned home. But when I was expecting to see the name Derek atop the call screen, my blood temporarily ran cold and then instantly began to grow hot.

I answered the call, defiantly sank myself into an armchair in the living room, to stop myself from turning rigid and defensive, and sat in silence, waiting for her to speak.

'Steven?' she asked, though who else could it have been? The tone of her voice implied that she had been building herself up to do this. I denied myself the temptation of thinking "to do this to me." I didn't want my own selfishness on my conscience. I wanted this to end, for the better.

'Spoken to your dad?' I asked. It was a cold response, the best I could manage. The alternative had been fire, wrathful and righteous. I didn't like that side of me, never let it out. I was growing used to swallowing some of my own feelings, whether I could digest them or not.

'No, why would I?' Carol asked, her words seemingly tasting as bitter in her mouth as the thought of the word "dad" was in her mind.

'Because he's been trying to get you back home, to make things right.'