*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
*.*
Venice Apartments had a sign out front, with the name 'Venice Apartments' in black against a background of the Italian flag of green, white, and red. Encircling the name was the silhouette of a gondola and gondolier.
The complex was comprised of four separate buildings arranged in a square. Each building faced inward, faced the pool and small courtyard. The first building, the northeast building was three floors, with five apartments on each floor. Apartments 101, 105, 201, 205, 301 and 305 were two bedroom units. The three units in between each two bedroom unit were one bedroom units. The southeastern building had apartments 106 and 107 on the ground floor, each a two bedroom unit. The second and third floors had four single room efficiencies on each. The southwestern building was a duplicate of the northeastern building, each floor with a two bedroom unit on the corners, separated by three one bedroom units. And the northwestern building was a duplicate of the southeastern building, a ground floor of two units, each with two bedrooms, then eight one room efficiencies atop. Behind the northwestern building was a large laundry room and an exercise room.
Across the parking lot in front of the northeastern building was the rental office. And on top of the rental office was the apartment building's clubhouse. Each tenant had the right to reserve the clubhouse for parties, but they must notify the apartment manager of the desired time that they planned to use the clubhouse.
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The two bedroom unit had a spacious living room. Turning the corner from living room, one was in the dining room. The miniscule kitchen was separated from the dining room by a small counter. That counter had the sink, the dishwasher, and the apartment's twenty five gallon hot water heater. The opposite wall had a small oven and range and four cabinets overhead. The refrigerator dwarfed the kitchen.
To the left of the kitchen, if one was facing the sink, was a three-quarter bath. This consisted of toilet, sink, and small shower stall. To the left of the bathroom door was the first bedroom, a ten by ten foot room.
Stepping out of the small kitchen and turning left, one walked straight into the second bedroom. It was also a ten by ten room, but to the left of the bedroom door was a second door that opened into a full bathroom. Just past the bedroom door was a second door which hide a full closet.
Barbara Garcia glumly looked around the apartment, then nodded to Keisha, the apartment complex manager. Brandon Garcia, Barbara's eighteen year old son looked out the open door of the apartment at the three bikini clad girls that cavorted in the pool.
"Sweetheart? What you think?" Barbara asked her son.
"Yeah, I guess," he shrugged. "Man, kitchen kind of sucks, huh?"
"Yeah, but remember last one we looked at?" Barbara pointed out.
"Huh? That matchbox?" Brandon agreed.
"Okay," Barbara told Keisha.
Three days after seeing the apartment, Barbara and Brandon were putting the last of the flattened boxes into the large dumpster. Brushing her long blonde hair back out of her eyes, Barbara noticed she had an audience; two young men had been watching her stretch to toss the box up into the dumpster. She nervously tugged down the hem of her cut off jean shorts, but the Daisy Dukes were firmly wedged in the crack of her buttocks.
"All right. How about sausage sandwiches?" Barbara suggested to her son.
Barbara turned and glared at the two young men when she heard one of them say something about 'sausage sandwiches' to his friend. The two young men smirked at her, unaffected by her glare.
"Hey," Brandon said, turning to walk toward the two young men.
"Sweetheart, no," Barbara said, grabbing Brandon's shirt sleeve.
Walking back to the apartment, Barbra held onto Brandon's arm. Mother and son did not talk as they walked, each deep in their own unhappiness.
Inside the apartment, Barbara found the skillet and put it on the miniscule stove. Quickly figuring out which button to push, she put the burner to medium high, then put a driblet of vegetable oil into the skillet.
She popped the top on the can of Vienna sausages and sliced them in half length-wise.
The sausages sizzled merrily as Barbara slapped mayonnaise on four slices of white bread, then slapped a slice of American cheese on two pieces.
"Want chips go with this?" Barbara asked as she used the spatula to guide hot sausages from skillet to bread.
"Uh huh," Brandon agreed.
"Not 'uh huh,'" Barbara said.
"Yes," Brandon agreed.
Barbara fished out a small bag of corn chips and put that on the plate with his two sandwiches.
For herself, Barbara used the same skillet to quickly make herself a scrambled egg and American cheese sandwich. She dug out a bag of cheddar flavored potato chips. Then son and mother sat at the small dining table and silently chomped their way through their meal.
"Says its cheddar flavored," Barbara finally said. "Never had cheddar cheese taste like this."
"Uh huh," Brandon agreed.
After Barbara cleaned the kitchen, she went to her bedroom, Brandon went to his bedroom. Barbara slipped out of her sweat soaked clothing then padded to the bathroom. She checked that she had both soap and shampoo in the tub before stepping in and twisting the taps.
"Ooh!" she exclaimed when a blast of cold water pummeled her.
The water quickly warmed and Barbara wet her hair, then lathered it. She grabbed the bar of soap and ran it over her small breasts, her flat belly, and her bald mound.
A check of mound, arm pits and legs showed Barbara that she needed to scrape them with the razor blade that sat on the rim of the tub. She made quick work of whisking pits, legs and mound smooth.
"Not that anyone gives a damn," she thought glumly.
The thirty seven year old woman wondered how Kevin Garcia, her husband of eighteen years could so suddenly, so callously decide that he no longer loved her, no longer loved her son. He was not the boy's father; Barbara had been five months pregnant when Kevin had smiled at her in Early's Grocery Store, had asked the pimple faced pregnant cutie for a date.
But for all of his life, Brandon had thought Kevin was his father. For eighteen years Brandon had called Kevin 'Dad.' So, the boy had two shocks. One, losing the home they'd had for the last twelve years; it had belonged to Kevin's mother and she had given it to her son, and two, discovering that his Dad wasn't his dad.
Penny Jones, her attorney did say that Kevin most likely be ordered to pay alimony, but Penny did concede that child support was an improbability. Brandon wasn't in school, was of the age of majority, and was not Kevin's biological child.
Together, Penny and Barbara agreed, since spousal support would be minimal, if at all, they'd wait for Kevin to file. That way, he'd be the one responsible for court costs. At that time, Penny would also petition the court that Kevin be made to pay her fees.
"You the one wants this divorce? You pay for it," Barbara mumbled to herself.
Stepping out of the shower, Barbara listlessly toweled off and slipped on a short tee shirt and panties. She then wedged her small feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers.
"Done?" Brandon asked, standing in the doorway of his room, dressed in only a pair of micro-briefs.
"Yes, Sweetheart," Barbara smiled.
He was a handsome young man, even if he was a few pounds overweight. He had dark brown hair and deep brown eyes, a pug nose and pouting lips. Standing at five feet, six inches, he was the same size as Kevin, and the same size as Barbara.
"'Bout time," Brandon teased his mother. "La de dah, think I'll use up all the hot water."
