like daddy like son

Cont. of “The One”

Sometimes Harold likes to take a walk around the block. He notices that Mrs. Lee’s garden is in full bloom and that baby birds are learning to fledge. He sees Mr. Wilson’s dogs lay in the sun. Sandy isn’t outside, but that’s okay. She’s probably out with her mama grocery shopping. Maybe when they get back, Harold can go over for some ice cream. Ms. Armstrong was always so kind and always smelled nice. Harold wished that he had a mom like that.

When Harold asked his daddy how he was born, his daddy always tells him he was born out of pure love. When Harold asks where his mama is, his daddy always lowers himself to eye level and places his right pointer finger on Harold’s chest and say that she’s right there in his heart. There are pictures of her and his father around the house. They’re happy and smiling. Harold thinks that his daddy should smile like that more often, but he doesn’t know how.

Harold notices that his father looks at Sandy’s mama in a funny way. Frank crinkles his nose and always comments that the Lord don’t make them the same no more. Harold asks his daddy what he means by that, and his father looks down filled with sad eyes.

“Well, your mama was an angle. Complete angel. That lady over there is no good. No husband and no one to take care of her and that girl over there. It’s a wonder how she’s able to afford that house over there. She’s probably a slut.”

Harold doesn’t know what a slut is, but he knows that it’s not good. Suddenly, he doesn’t like the way that Ms. Armstrong smells. She’s always wearing those low cut dresses and wearing too much makeup. Harold hopes that Sandy doesn’t grow up to be like her mom, but maybe it’s too late.

“Your Mama is a slut!”

“NO, SHE’S NOT!”

Sandy slapped Harold across the face and ran into her house. They haven’t spoken in a few days, but Harold knows she’ll come around. Every time they get in a fight, all he has to do is keep following her around until she gives in. He pushes her to the ground because that’s how boys are told to let girls know they like them. Maybe he’ll just go over and pretend to like Ms. Armstrong to save Sandy. After all, if there’s no man in the house, Harold thinks, who’s going to keep Sandy in line?

You don’t love him

You don’t love him. At least, this is what you tell yourself as you drift off to sleep after a thirty minute fuck. If you loved him, you would have cum. If you loved him, you would let him fuck you with the lights on. You don’t, so you don’t. After nine years, fifty-six countries, and two affairs, it’s a wonder why he hasn’t left, but he hasn’t. Instead, your head is resting on his chest on a bed in a hut on an island off the coast of Malaysia. He won’t leave you because you hold a promise of a future, a family, a foundation for a fantasy—not that he has said any of this to you.

The preen-up will be over in another year or so, and that’s when you plan to pack your bags and never look back. But why leave? You don’t have anywhere in particular to go, and you don’t have any family or friends to see. Do you return to a city in a country you’re familiar with and know the streets by heart? Or try to establish roots somewhere else? You don’t have any remarkable skills, but blond hair and blue eyes will get you almost anywhere nowadays. Besides, with a cool two-hundred and fifty-six million dollars, you could go anywhere in the third world. Maybe take on a lover, or two, or four. Why not? You’ve wasted most of your youth fucking a man that thought your clit had too many turns like a rubrics cube and when you found someone who could handle it just right, you suddenly moved. You’re not sure if he ever found out, but you’re also not particularly interested in asking. Some things are better left unsaid.

How would he take it? Did he think that after ten years you’d change your mind and fall in love and say yes to numerous children he asked for? Four girls and three boys? Or maybe it was four boys and three girls? It’s been a while since he’s brought it up. He knows better than to ask anymore. Would they look more like you or him? Not that the children would be attractive, your genes could only cover up so much.

Time passes, and your mind starts to quiet itself, and you can hear the waves lap at the sand and the wind caress the leaves of trees. Maybe you won’t leave him. It hasn’t been a particularly hard or long life. And who knows, maybe you do love him after all.