“To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain.” -Virginia Woolf
A s I run the bath, I see that the lilac soap that I used in the tub the other night has been refilled.
“It’s like being in a hotel!” I say aloud, knowing my awe is safe in the privacy of my own little suite. Draping my robe across the vanity chair, I slip into the massive tub, the waves of lilac swallowing me up to my neck. My eyelids feel like they’re made of brick as the warmth envelopes me completely and my body begins to relax. Closing my eyes, I let the image of Owen catching me by my hip fill my mind. I reach down and touch my waist, almost able to feel his grip on me. The gaze we shared replays in my mind like a romantic movie; his eyes tightened to mine with passion, his looks across the car to me. And then I sharply inhale, remembering how his sinewy body felt beneath his suit as my back fell helplessly against his chest. It all happened so fast and ended even quicker but oh, the memory was tearing through me, leaving a trail of heat and need in its wake.
I reached down and parted myself. Even in the soapy water I could feel the slickness on my fingertips. My pink nipples awaken to the memories and poked through the bubbles, erect and needy. I palm my breast and squeeze it gently before using my other hand to gently strum my clit. I’m a light weight. Or he’s that handsome. Or I’m that crazy. It’s one or more of those, but regardless, I come in my palm after a very short amount of time touching myself. I sink down in the bath, enjoying my post-coital soak, hoping that this release makes dinner a lot easier.
With the towel wrapped tightly around my heaving bosom, I look down at the sad array of pajamas that I own. All second hand, all very ugly. Two pairs of plaid men’s pants that I found at the thrift store in high school, three t-shirts (one of which I got from the ice cream shop my first week), and a tired pair of faded women’s satin shorts. Those I got at a thrift store near campus. They cost me $4 and they were so very soft-but you could tell they were old and well-worn. Hmmm. I’d have to choose something. The old satin shorts and the plain V-neck gray t-shirt would have to do. My hair was still wet but I combed it out and hoped by wearing it down over my shoulders, resting on my chest, it would hide my terribly old shirt. It’s strange-I’d been poor, wearing crappy clothes my entire life. By the time I was in forth grade I’d learned to not be embarrassed. I didn’t give a shit because I had no control over it. But now, years upon years later, I found myself feeling ashamed of my wardrobe. I did not like this feeling. But I knew it was brought on from my attraction to Owen. I wanted him to see me as desirable.
You are as desirable as you believe yourself to be, my inner voice sings in my ears loudly. She’s right. I push my shoulders back and glance at my phone-6:48pm. I take a deep breath and head downstairs. Time for my dinner date.
AS I TIPTOE down the stairs, I can hear Marie’s voice humming some sort of song and her motherly tone gives me a sense of comfort. My own mother never sang or hummed. I remember for a while there was an older woman who had a trailer near ours. She was heavy, golden hair tied with a ribbon every day; she always wore house slippers and big t-shirts with bike shorts. She, too, was poor, always in-between jobs and struggling to pay for her spot at the park. But every so often she’d let me sit on the steps of her trailer and listen to her sing while she knitted. She knew I loved her voice and she knew my mom was never around; she was the first person to show me some sort of compassion and care and though I know I’ll never find her or be able to repay her, I feel grateful she was around. I came home from school one day and she was simply gone. The humming both warms me and brings me some sadness I did not know was there.
I came to the end of the stairs and had a full view of the massive kitchen; no Owen yet. I settle onto the barstool and greet Marie.
“Whatever it is, it smells so good, Marie,” I close my eyes and inhale deeply.
I don’t recognize any of these smells but I know it’s got to be something good. Saliva pools in my mouth. She pours me a glass of water from a foggy pitcher she pulled from the fridge and slides it to me.
“You will like this, sweet girl, I promise you.”
Hmm. I curiously peer around the kitchen to try and get an inkling for what she’s making. I can see a covered pan with steam floating above it, and a big bowl. Other than that, there’s not much else showing.
“Mr. Owen called me today and requested it. I don’t make it often, but it is his favorite dish.”
She turned around and gave me a soft smile.
“Drink the water, you’ll be having wine soon.”
I raised my eyebrows to her to say ‘oh will I?’ and finished my water. I watch her shuffle around the kitchen for a few more minutes before Owen entered from the den entrance to the kitchen.
“How was your first day?” he startles me and I jump in the barstool slightly. He is wearing black athletic type pants. They could be sweats but I’m so nervous I can’t bring myself to really look. He’s got on a plain gray t-shirt that falls loose off his robust shoulders and I can, for the first time, clearly see the definition rippling through his biceps and triceps. Mmmm. I squeeze my legs together under the overhang of the island. Suddenly what I did in the bath earlier doesn’t seem to be enough. The urge is growing inside me again, quickly.
“It was wonderful, thank you,” I say, turning on the barstool to face him where he stands off in the corner.
“Wonderful,” he repeats back to me, his eyes darting between mine. This is not the first time he’s repeated some of my words. Is it the word choice? What is it?
“My first job at a desk, in nice clothes.” He doesn’t get it but it’s kind of a big deal.
“What other jobs have you had?” he asks, slipping onto the barstool furthest from me.
He must be well over six feet tall; his long legs are stretched out in front of him while he reaches for a cup of water that Marie has slid him. His brown hair is damp and I can smell his soap, even from here. Inhaling his scent as quietly as possible, I answer his question.
“When I was fifteen in high school, I worked at the diner my mom worked at.”
“Waitress?”
I laugh. Whatever fantasy he may be having of me in a tight dress with an apron on (and I do sincerely hope that image is in his head because that would mean he’s thinking about me!) is about to be extinguished.
“Hardly. Bus-girl. Mopped floors, cleaned the bathroom. Stuff like that. Technically I wasn’t old enough to work so they paid me under the table.”
He nods. “Any other jobs?”
“Yeah, before that I cleaned houses with my mom. She gave me $10 for each house.”
“Before you were fifteen?” his eyes are angry and I don’t know if he’s mad at me. I don’t know him well enough yet to gauge his emotion. Heck, I hardly know him. That thought weighs down my gut with sadness.
“Yeah,” and then, startling us both, I say, “I didn’t have a choice. The police had already told my mom she can’t just leave me at home alone all the time. So, she started taking me. And if I was there, I was working. But yeah, um, she paid me,” I can feel him digesting this information and his brow further furrows, his dusky eyes narrowing on me.
“And you said you haven’t heard from her in a while?”
He sure is asking a lot of questions. I want him to ask questions, because that means he cares. Maybe he’s interested? But what if he is? Am I really going to do that to Kyra? I lock eyes with him. He runs a strong hand through his lush mocha locks and smiles, his normal, cool smile. My chest tightens.
Maybe I would do that to Kyra.