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Hello.  Thank you for reading this story / stream-of-consciousness / poem / College Forensics thingy.  Comments are welcome, emails can be iffy depending on circumstances requiring circumspection…  Crickets seem more probable from you to me than either, but we’ll see.

If you are a Health Care worker dealing with the Pandemonium, or have experienced recent loss, or illness, or guilt or depression, then this may not be the best story for you to be reading right now.  It’s supposed to provoke an emotional response, or at least not a yawn, but I worry that it might affect people who really don’t need to have the added burden of someone else’s stress.

The very few directly sexual situations in this story are also very tame; the story is not about sex even though it’s on Lit despite the fact that every red blooded het male knows that anyone that likes girls spends every waking second trying to obtain sex from them, therefore sex must be the only thing in the minds of female humans who have ever engaged in any homosexual behavior whatsoever whenever they see another female human—in fact it’s obviously the only activity said persons ???????? engage in when they’re within touching distance of one another, QED.  (That’s hyper-obvious sarcasm, gentlemen. I know what humans are like. Sitting here at 02:00 AM on 11/4/2020, following the trending election results, I’m thinking subtlety might be wasted on the unsubtle…)  Anyway, if you are looking for a descriptive sex story, this ain’t it.

The writing style may be very irritating to essayists and editors, run-on sentences being the rule rather than the exception in this piece.  Beyond that, the punctuation does what I have decided it should do; I am no servant of any faction declaring the correct use of any non-quotation mark punctuation when in the vicinity those marks.  You have been warned.   😉

CeVin_ChienElle    20201104:062417UTC

. . . . . . . . . .


The paleness of her skin seems to glow in the early morning light.  You can’t see much looking from your vantage, just the edge of her profile and her dark mane and a bit of her earlobe.  The streak of silver is just barely visible sweeping down and back from her temple.  Pushing your face just a little bit forward lets you put a little bit of a kiss on that earlobe and her deep, delighted little chuckle rewards you.  You drag the edges of your lips lightly down from her ear to the base of her neck, her sharp inhalation the ending of your gentle, long, slow exhalation.

Your hand, flat on her chest, pulls itself down across the top of her breast and She coos as the edge of your practiced palm hovers the way she likes across the crinkling demarcation and the tiny bump bump bumps onto the nipple turning rigid and hot.  She pushes back into you as you blow a thin cool zephyr into the line that is no longer neck but hasn’t become shoulder and the edges of her shoulder blades shimmy against your nipples which are already hard and straining as if they could reach through her to meet their sisters/lovers from within.

“Hey,” She says.

“Hey yourself.”

She turns her face to smile at the ceiling, and at you from the corner of her eye.  “They’ll be here in forty-five minutes” and you groan and it’s all so unusually usual.

“Call them and tell them all to come back tomorrow!”

She laughs and shakes her head, getting up to throw her robe on quickly as She’s gathering last night’s thoughtlessly discarded items while She makes her way to the shower saying, “They’re already gonna come back tomorrow.”

The ancient mended threadbare more-patch-than robe She loves so much, that you love just because She does and She does because memories exist; She had it hanging from the drawer pull that night in her dorm room.

You breathe deep and groan again and then realize “Hey!  I didn’t get to see the baby badges!”

“Well, sit up next time!” She shakes her head again and rolls her eyes.  “How did I marry someone who’s hot for saggy tits and stretch marks?”

“They’re not saggy” and She’s already stuck her tongue out nyah and opened the robe to flash you in anticipation of your denial.

They aren’t saggy.  They’re beautiful.

It’s just hard to get out of bed lately but today is fragilely “normal” so far and last night was a gift.

She’s at the bathroom door and your eyes trade the three words with hers.  You find some energy and half-ass “leap” (as if) out of the bed but your hip twinges as She shrieks and steps into the bathroom clicking the lock to let you know there’ll be no shenanigans, and twinge or not it could be four months ago instead of Now.

It doesn’t feel like escort bursa Now.  You rub above the traitor hip that at least wasn’t able to prevent last night…completely.  The faucet stops as the shower starts and you whine “I need to brush my teeth.” She relents and lets you in after giving you the be good or be gone look through the partly opened door while smiling happily and are those mixed signals or what?

Last night was a gift and you were happy to give so much more than you took because even though you were soaking the sheets you would have been trying to fake it after the first ascension and you would have failed because She knows you far too well.  She deserves to have as much as you can honestly give her.  Deserves far more than you can give her Now.

You rinse the water cup and prop the toothbrush in the holder and you decide “the hell with it” and you step into the streaming drops facing her and push until her back is out of the water and you can soap it good.   Together you spin her back back into the water and She’s laughing as She soaps your back in turn. You know this waltz so well; this step ends with another spin and a quick kiss as She steps completely out, and Now still mostly avoids feeling the way Now has lately felt.

Mane twisted in a towel, sport top and sweatpants and flip-flops and perfect pearly-nacre nails, in your mind She’s an accelerating blur down the stairs when you hear her calling “twenty minutes!” and you can already faintly discern the banging-open cupboards and imagine you hear her pulling out pans and the bowl.

You towel-off your head and shake out your mop and you’re done, pulling on panties and yoga pants and the twinge above the damned hip again…  You drop a long tee from your upstretched arms over your sport-bra and pull your head through as you head downstairs and She’s yelling “TEN minutes!”

You pad into the kitchen barefoot; She’s a mite annoyed but She always is on a “breakfast morning” while it’s still about to happen.  Already the ten-inch pan is warming and the butter’s melted in the bowl to the side and the veggies you prepped together last night partly to prep you for last night together are slowly getting hot in the big skillet.

You grab the cheese She forgot to pull from the fridge and tear open the bag and flip the bin open to receive the egg shells just before the sound of the front door banging wide accompanies The Boy yelling “Okay, okay, keep your damn shirt on!” at his sister.  He thumps into the kitchen with an enormous duffel bag on his shoulder and says “Hi Mom Hi Mama; omelets?  Awesome!” and tracks mud into the laundry room to dump the duffel where you know he’s just going leave it for someone else to take care of.

You trade a look with her and She shrugs her eyebrows.  You add the water and start beating the hell out of the eggs with the big whisk but she sees you struggling and takes over.  For a second it’s feeling more Now.

She finishes and throws the whisk into the sink as The Girl comes in carrying The Peanut and her bag and the diaper bag and the extra bag and the damn fold-up stroller for heaven’s sake, leading The Son-in-law who would be carrying some that if she’d let him.  She sees that her Mama has been beating the eggs and so asks her Mom if you’re feeling okay and you tell her “it’s fine.”

“Why,” you silently ask God, “can’t The Boy be more like The Son-in-law?” The Son-in-law is pure gold.

The Girl snarks “thanks for coming back” at The Boy and hands The Peanut to Grandma and She says “A little ripe, isn’t she?” and The Girl says “It was a porch blort, Mama.” Grandma starts to head to the bathroom and Mimi sure as hell would’ve just handed the baby back to The Girl but The Son-in-law grabs The Peanut and the diaper bag and says “I’ve got her!  Nothing must interfere with omelets!” and why, God?  The Boy is nineteen years old.  The Son-in-law is twenty-five.  Is that such a huge difference?

The Boy comes back into the kitchen carrying his muddy shoes and the sponge mop; he grabs the paper towels and leans down to kiss your cheek and says “sorry Mom, I didn’t notice” as he heads back into the living room and Thank You God, Amen, and again also for lending your wisdom in the decision against carpeting.

You cock an eyebrow at The Girl before you turn back to flip the omelet, and she says “I know Mom.  I’m sorry, but it’s been a morning” and when you glance back her Best Mother has her pulled back into a hug and is giving her a kiss on the back of the head.  “It’s tiring, sweetie.  We know.” You reach behind you while you judge the puffiness of the omelet and the color of the edge and you give The Girl’s hand bursa merkez eskort a squeeze.  You do know.

You flip the egg-frisbee in the air with a wrist twist and add the veggies and cheese and flick it to fold it and plate the first one saying “hot omelet!” and before you can pour the next one The Boy has thumped the mop handle up against the wall and pounced, demanding to know where the hell the salsa is?

“I’m pretty sure you know where the refrigerator is kid,” She says, and you give her a wink.

Omelets are a production line and they go quick after the first one, but eating together doesn’t start until the fruit cups come out of the fridge while you’re attacking the final eggs (because the cook eats last.) You’ll have a real sit down breakfast tomorrow.

You’ll do it tomorrow.

“You’re making pancakes, right Mom?  Right!?” You make a show of considering it as The Boy becomes more agitated and She tries to hide a smile.  “Come on, Mom, you gotta make ’em!” and his sister, also suppressing a smile says “oh, Mom’s pancakes are definitely the very best pancakes in the world, but maybe we should give her a break?”

“How much of that laundry you didn’t do at school are you expecting someone else to do” you ask and when he says “None!  None at all” everybody but him knows he’s lying and you pretend you have to relent. “Okay, fine.  I’ll make pancakes.”

It’s funny how your egg and The Donor’s wiggly made The Girl, who is so much like her, and her egg and The Donor’s wiggly made the boy, who is so much like you.  You wish you could’ve carried one to term but what doesn’t work doesn’t work and after your two tries a third would’ve broken both you and the bank.

The hip twinges.

You shoo them all into the living room and clean up.  The alone time is good, but She comes back in to help and you lean back against her as she rubs the spot that twinges and the not alone time is better.

“Still sore?” and you say “yeah,” and she kisses the nape of your neck.  She holds you and you sway back and forth and you hear her sniffle and there’s nothing you can say but “we’ll see” and she says “I love you” and you say “I love you more,” but you know it’s not possible.  She’s made of Love, it’s the essence of her.  And besides, if you really loved her you wouldn’t do this to her.

You go in and sit with your family and listen to the latest and laugh and kvetch; The Boy makes his exit as quickly as he can get away with it and you tell him to stay in touch today for once and then you and She grouse about him until The Son-in-law says “he’s nineteen, for cryin’ out loud!” as if that were some sort of excuse.

It’s hard not to think about the lower back and the hip.  Your energy comes and goes from minute to minute.  You’ve been avoiding it but you’re going to have to tell them… just not yet.  Not until after the results.  You’ll tell them tomorrow, maybe, if you have the results.

You’ll do it tomorrow.

After The Girl and The Son-in-law and The Peanut are gone while The Boy is out doing whatever it is The Boy does instead of spending any goddamn’ time with his mothers She cuddles you on the couch and you keep thinking of stuff that needs doing but she keeps keeping you there, holding on to you like you might disappear.  You turn when you feel a tear hit your neck and hug her and shush her and hold her.  “Baby.  Shhhh.  It’s gonna be fine,” and you yawn.

It’s her that falls asleep because although you’re tired all the time the worry is completely exhausting her.  You know She feels helpless and though it’s not like you feel as if you’re in control you can at least pretend.  She can only endure.

Last night was a gift.

You leave her on the couch and wash The Boy’s clothes, even though that gives him an out because “I was gonna do it, you didn’t hafta volunteer!” followed by him being put out because you made him look bad and “I woulda done it!” even though the last load you did for him won’t come out of the dryer until tomorrow night unless someone else needs the dryer and piles it on the table where it will sit with the rest, even though he could fold it and he doesn’t have to just stuff it all back into the duffel unfolded because it would fit in there better if he just fucking folded it!

You should’ve named him “Even Though.” You could’ve at least had the satisfaction of watching him trying to get people to call him “Evan Tough.”

She comes looking for you after you’ve started the dryer and are starting to reload the washer.  You tell her about “Evan Tough” and She says “you have a screwy brain” and She says “what a stupid joke” and bursa sınırsız escort She wussy-slaps your arm and She laughs anyway.

She laughs anyway.  It’ll be fine.  Tomorrow you’re making pancakes.

She pushes your shaggy mop off of your nape and kisses the back of your neck about every ten seconds while you’re leaning motionless on the washer because you’re … lost in thought until you finally turn around and kiss her like you mean it and you end up … lost in thought with your chin on her shoulder.  It’s okay.  You’re just lost in thought.

It will be… fine.

You’re walking into the kitchen getting tired again above the hovering more-than-a-twinge and just about to start figuring out dinner when the text comes in, and you stop and stare at it.

     Sunday 9/../.. @ 3:37PM  From: WHC OClinic

She stops in the hallway and stares at you stopped and staring at the text.  At who it’s from.  You slowly walk upstairs and she follows you, not asking, not leaving you with only you yourself.  Not abandoning you, but then how could any person abandon any person they claim to love and still be a good person?

Not a good person.

How can you be this?

You sit on the edge of the bed and hug your pillow, She folds herself in behind you and enfolds you and your pillow hugging you with her arms and legs.  In the photo on the vanity you’re standing there together in your simple white gowns holding bouquets of pink satin “pouffey flowers,” smiling such beautiful smiles and looking so very young.

You were so young, once.   So healthy.   A good person.

You look down and stare at the text from the clinic again.

     Critical scheduling information.

     Please call immediately.

“What if it comes back positive for the higher stage, would that require surgery?” you had asked, and he’d said “well we’ll hope that isn’t the case and it’s negative” and after battering him with questions he’d finally said “that would be very bad because we don’t want it to have spread to that point, and we’d have to do any surgery very quickly and hope for a good outcome, but even a good outcome would change your life significantly so let’s hope it’s low stage and the biopsy is low stage and it’s treatable by other means, right?” and then he’d described the best and worst cases for surgery and there was very little difference.  Her face had been bloodless for the entire time She was returning the two of you to your home.

You know what’s coming.

Last night you’d felt like you’d gotten a second wind.  You’d felt pretty good, and you’d definitely let her know it.  It carried you through breakfast.  Surely it can carry you through another day.   Week.


A guy you knew once used to say that asking how long someone lived was pointless because everybody lives exactly one lifetime.

The spot on your back above your hip twinges.  You don’t really feel bad.  Not like lately.  Maybe a little tired.  You’ve just been a little tired.  It’s not a thing.   It twinges hard.

She holds you and weeps without tears as you stare sightlessly.  At 16:10 you finally thumb the message and select “speaker” and “call.” The Center’s answering service picks up and they verify your name and birth date and transfer you to the doctor’s on-call staff.

     “We have the results of your biopsy. The doctor needs you to be at the hospital tomorrow morning at five.  This is very important: do not eat or drink anything but water or juice until then.  Don’t eat or drink anything, even water, after nine tonight, or take any medicines after nine.  This important.  You have to show up at five, or earlier if possible, but no earlier than four-thirty.  Do you understand, ma’am?”

Tomorrow’s a Monday holiday.  You don’t schedule things on a holiday.  Hospitals don’t schedule things on a holiday.  Tomorrow is another family day.  You’re going to put out the first of the Halloween decorations.  You always build them up a little piece at a time, for almost two months.  A little scarier every few days.  Every year the Jack O’ Lanterns are last.  You have to remember to get the pumpkins early because if you wait all of the good ones are gone.

Tomorrow is another “breakfast day.” Second game of a double-header.

It’s a Monday holiday.   Tomorrow is.   You’re making pancakes for The Boy for family breakfast, round two.

The hospital can wait.

     “Ma’am?  Are you there?”

Can’t it wait?

Her arms are around you.  Her cheek is leaned against the back of your head and She’s sobbing silently and now your neck is wet.  You can feel her shame for crying when She has to be strong for you which is just complete fucking bullshit but She’ll never believe that even though it’s obviously your fault, not hers.

Your fault.  She should not have to cry.  They… should not make her cry.  You need to explain to them that they shouldn’t make her cry.  You look down at the phone.

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