0 comments/ 15695 views/ 1 favorites Bridge Work By: AnonAndAnon "Let's fuck," Steve said lazily, slipping his hand over her far breast, fingering its nipple. They lay in the darkness. The creek to their left looked a black path through the thick cattails and purple loosestrife, both colorless in the moonlight. To their right lay darkness. In the day, there'd be a slice of blue where the bridge divided and then a rectangle of bright light further on. In the night it was just black. "I'm tired of sex," she replied irritably, pushing his hand away, "You know what day yesterday was?" A truck could be heard in the distance. Its headlights danced crazily on the oak trees which stood on the high ground beyond the bridge. Its Doppler shifting roar engulfed them. "The day before today," he sighed, slipping his hand down over her stomach, veering over the hard bone of her hip, back over her thigh and down into her pubic hair, finally coming to rest, cupping her sex. "Did anyone remember the date? Did my Mom? Did she even think of me like once? How about my sister? Huh? Did she?" "Your Mom's getting up there," he said, his middle finger finding her moist little spot and caressing it lightly. "I am so not in the mood." She took his hand and plopped it down on his cock. "And when you get old you're supposed to have trouble forming new memories, not hanging onto old ones." "And your sister's daughter just had a baby. Your sister has plenty on her mind." "My Mom has no trouble remembering that! She talks about nothing else at the Senior Center. She sits in the craft room and knits booties and bores all the other seniors to tears about her great granddaughter. She's one eighth related to her. I'm one half. She should be remembering her own daughter." "That baby has one crucial advantage over you," he whispered, putting his hand back on her knee and leaning over and kissing her neck. "Let's fuck, it passes the time." "Screw you," she said jumping up, banging her head on the low steal of the bridge's understructure. He laughed easily. "Wish you'd act on that thought, honey. But I'm equally happy to sleep." "Asshole." He watched as her dim form picked its way off the cement, down the thorny dirt path to the water. He could just faintly see her in the mist and moonlight. He could hear the splash as she slid into where the water pooled, waist deep. He idly rubbed his cock where it lay half erect against his belly. He watched her pale form splashing water under her arms and onto her face. A car whined overhead. She climbed back up into the darkness. She bent and picked up some bit of clothing. From the way she twisted he knew it was her bra. When she was dressed, he said lazily, "My Mom remembered, she called my brother from Florida, she said, 'If it wasn't for that little tramp my Stevey would be alive today.'" "Asshole," she replied. With a chuckle he closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep. ------------------------------------ The garage lights of the house on his right flicked on, his dog setting off its motion sensors as she trotted along at the end of her flexi-leash. In the yard to his left a large billowing orange pumpkin softly whirred to itself, its jaws stupidly gaping. Inside those jaws two small white plastic ghosts slowly revolved around an invisible center. The house on the corner displayed an inflated pumpkin too and a large white smiling ghost and a swaying green and purple witch. His dog paused and stuck her nose into some dry leaves. He hauled on the leash with a muttered, "Stop it!" She had a habit of consuming disgusting rubbish and then throwing it up later, all over the rug. It was 5:30 on Columbus Day morning. The air was crisp and cool. A scattering of sturdy suburban stars glinted in the clear sky, overcoming the nearby streetlights, the lights from the interstate interchange a mile a way, the quarter moon, and the glow of the city to the north. He could make out Orion in the southwest sky and if he concentrated he could just see the faint glitter of the sword. The horizon to the east held just the faintest yellow green promise of coming erasure. The flashing red and white lights of an early plane crossed near the moon. He could just hear the whisper of its roar, the airport was quite some distance away. He had to get to work, Columbus Day not being one of his company's holidays. He liked to get to work early, the first hour or so when it was just him, a single island of light in a dark line of cubes, was the best. At the corner he and the dog crossed North St and walked up the drive and into the Oak Hill Cemetery. The grass and the gravestones and the trees and the winding drive were all various shades of gray. A thin gray mist hung low over the ground. Next to a few of the graves faint red lights gleamed. These would shine for a week or so until their AAA batteries gave out and people forgot to replace them. On holidays people would remember and the early morning cemetery would be dotted here and there with pinpricks of light, eclipsed now and then as he walked by trees and stones. As this was by far the nicest place to walk his dog, he was often in the cemetery. He didn't need the light of day to know that the dim obelisk on his left was for a Colonel James Rutledge, of the 5th Ohio, died April 6, 1862. Or that the granite boulder on his right marked a Thomas Worth, died December 5, 1918 and that the little rocks clustered around it each bore just one name: "Gertrude - wife," "Jane - daughter", "Lydia - daughter", "Thomas - son", "Susan - mother". With more light, you'd be able to see little flags stuck in the ground, signaling some stones as special, marking the dead who'd served. Sometimes the cord of his dog's leash would catch and snap one of these and he'd guiltily bend and stuff its stump back into the dirt. He turned onto a path that circled under some trees and around a low boggy pond. It was even darker here and he could only tell where the path was by its extra emptiness, the absence of the vague shapes of trees and graves, and the feel of the gravel under his shoes. From the bog rose the delicate last whiff of Concord grapes. Their vines lay tangled deep in a riot of thorny blackberry bushes. He'd only managed to get at one bunch when he'd tried a couple weeks before. In August, he and his dog'd spent a peaceful summer hour or two picking the blackberries. He'd dropped his into a tupperware container, from habit really, as there was no one else at home to eat them on ice cream or cereal, she'd just selfishly swallowed hers, her lips carefully pulled way back to avoid the thorns, daintily biting the berries where they hung. On the hill to his left lay the oldest graves, dating to 1815 when the first settlers'd arrived. The stones were slate and even if it were noon, you couldn't read them due to time and acid rain. He passed a newish section, the stones polished granite. Here one of the little red lights glowed. Dawn coupled with its dim light let him make out the inscription: "Little Sarah, January 11, 2005 - August 24, 2005, Never Ending Kisses". A small wrought iron trellis had been pushed into the dirt beside the stone, from it hung in ziplock plastic bags: a stuffed bunny, a closed board book, a tiny pair of feet-in pajamas, and a set of wind chimes which dinged softly in the slight breeze. Fresh cut flowers arranged in a plastic pumpkin had been added as a seasonal touch. Several pots of vigorously blooming chrysanthemums sat in front of the stone. One of the cemetery's wooden benches had been shifted so it was next to the path, just beside the grave. He and his dog followed the path back to the drive. The cemetery's main field stretched flat before him. He could see the inflated witch and the pumpkin and the loopily grinning ghost, shrunk but not improved by distance. The lights of a car, probably the newspaper deliverer, slid along North St, slowing in front of several of the houses. The band of dawn in the east was noticeably brighter, more yellow. "Pretty isn't it." The voice startled him. He saw that a young woman sat on one of the stones, one of the ones with a little American flag stuck next to it. His dog approached her, tail wagging, stretching the flexi-leash. "Well, hello there," she said to the dog, holding out her hand in a friendly fashion. "It is pretty," he said. They remained quiet, the girl scratching behind his dog's ears. "Look," she said suddenly, "An owl." Indeed he did see something gray float silently across his vision, vanishing as if it'd never been into the line of trees on a little hill on the left. "I saw deer grazing up there one morning," he said, "Dart saw them too. Snapped her damn collar when she went after them." "I'm sure she enjoyed herself." "Yeah," he said, remembering her frantic yips of joy as she'd vanished in hot pursuit. "Come on Dart," he called to the dog, but she paid him no mind. The girl said, "You know, that stupid ghost over there doesn't add anything. I could like really do without it. Why put out something mass-produced, like made by the million in China, that everyone else has?" "And that's ugly to boot." "Yup. Come November, the witch will change into a football player; the ghost, a turkey; and the pumpkin will become I don't know what." "Maybe a sales item." "Right. At Christmas, there'll be a Santa, a snowman and an elf. At Easter there'll be a pink rabbit, and a couple eggs. It's disgusting. And while I'm complaining, I'll mention that I don't really like the grave lights either. What's up with them? Do the dead need help seeing where they're going? I don't think so. And, I can hardly wait for young Sarah to get a younger sister. If they put out a Christmas tree again this year, I swear I'm gonna take matters into my own hands." Her voice, which in the dimness was her most pronounced feature was light, attractive and ironical. He could see that she wore jeans and a light jacket of a dark color. Her hair dark, colorless yet in the morning gloom. "Still, it's a pretty morning." "Yes," he agreed. "Imagine though, if old Ichabod Crane should find himself here, what would he think when he saw that ghost and witch, and those grave lights! They'd sure scare the bejesus out of him. He'd like take to his heels in earnest." "He was on horseback I think." "Whatever." She went back to looking out over the cemetery. "Come on, Dart," he called to his dog. She was staring into a tree, fancying she could hear some awakening squirrels. Then the girl said, "This place just makes me sad. It's an oubliette. A place to be forgotten." "With all the names? I'd say just the reverse." "Right, a name and two dates, neither of which found the person at anything like their best." "This is my fa..., my grandfather's grave," she patted the granite under her, "See the child's flag? He was in the army in Sicily and Italy. In a tank. After the war he went to college. He taught high school chemistry and physics the rest of his life. I, I mean my mother had him, she said he was a good teacher. He never went into a VFW or American Legion once. It was teaching he was proud of, that and being the music director at church. He played the organ and directed the choir. What do people think when they walk by? 'There lies a soldier' if anything." "You remember him," he said. She glanced at him through the corners of her eyes, her lips forming just the slightest of smiles. His eyes met hers and he felt warmed. "In time though, only the lie will remain." "Come on, Dart," he called, this time tugging hard on the leash. He nearly fell over as she came easily, trotting ahead as if moving on'd been her idea and he was the reluctant one. The grass had become faintly green, the trees slightly yellow and gold and brown. Only one of the stars, a planet probably, remained visible, the rest of the sky had been swept clean. The mist was now pure white. Soon it too would thin and vanish. When he turned and looked back, he saw the girl walking the other way, toward the Main St entrance. On the far side of Main St he could see the "24x7", a convenience store with a drive-in window for coffee and donuts. A few early pickup trucks were waiting, in an hour the line would be obstructing the street. He admired the way she walked and wondered what she was doing out and about so early. A strange one, he thought. He shook his head to clear it and started walking toward home again. He remembered that last glance, the sort of glance you longed to get from a pretty girl, that you got maybe once in a lifetime. His once'd come from someone he'd likely never see again. Just then his dog finally squatted and put the grass to the use God intended and he had to busy himself pulling a plastic bag from his pocket, bending and picking up after her. It occurred to him that the sight of a citizen stooping behind his dog would be as unsettling to the old time settlers as ghostly grave lights. An hour or so later he stood in the doorway of one of the coveted window cubes. He sipped his coffee, looking out at the parking lot. Though the sun was now a good foot above the horizon, their offices faced west so the line of trees beside the drive was brightly lit but the office interior was still dim. Behind him, in the center aisle, his cube's work light gleamed. He thought of the girl. How unexpected their conversation had been. He tried to avoid thinking of the email he'd gotten from his younger son Thad, sent at 1AM, "Pop, wont b bk 4 thxgvng. wd b 2 weerd." He would be by himself on Thanksgiving. The overhead lights flicked on, accompanied by their strangely loud hum. The lights and especially the hum annoyed him, though he knew that he would soon cease to hear the later. "You make the coffee for a change?" Chuck called out, slinging his laptop bag into his cube. "Nah," he returned, lying as he always made the first pot, "There was still plenty of Friday's last batch left. I just put it back on the burner. Saving money for the company." "You're full of shit like always," Chuck said a moment later, coming out of the kitchen sipping from his mug. After a moment Chuck said, "You know, you don't look so good. You're not coming down with something are you?" "Maybe," he replied. "Then thanks for coming in, man, you know how the air circulates in this place! We'll all be sick tomorrow cause'a you." He turned, faked blowing toward his fellow worker, then said, "I'd better be getting back to work." Attendance at the lunch table later was sparse, just he and two other guys. Most of his fellows'd taken the day as a vacation day or declared it a floating holiday, you got two. Usually he just let the lunch conversation flow over him, not understanding references to television or movies and being uninterested in sports. Today he got asked, "So how are you and your wife surviving the empty nest?" He didn't respond. He wasn't paying attention. He felt sad and was trying to remember the girl's face in the gathering light and her voice. "Hello! Are you there?" "Mmm?" "I was wondering how you and your wife were surviving with no kids at home?" "Just fine," he answered, "In a lot of ways it's not so different from last year. Every year you see less and less of them." "Sounds nice," his questioner, Chuck, sighed, "Mine're all over me when I'm home." "They soon get over being three and six." "Your kids coming home for Thanksgiving?" "The younger guy, Thad is. His older brother's going to his girlfriend's family in Atlanta." "Kind'a serious." "He thinks so." "It'll be just the three of you?" "Yep" "Lot's of left-overs then." "Nah. I found this site on the web. You can order these frozen turkey chicks. At three weeks each's just the right size for one person. Makes a very festive serving too." "Really?" "Yeah. It's like each of you is the family patriarch, carving his own big bird." "You're kidding right?" "The beauty is they only take 10 minutes to roast. We can sleep in. Up at 11:45 and still serve at 12:30. They come with a complementary magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers for the wishbones." For most of the afternoon he sat still in his cube, hardly thinking. He thought about the girl in the dawn light, thought about her voice, thought about how she'd looked walking away, what her little smile and eyes had looked like. She kept him from thinking of his kids, his wife, and the fiction he maintained at work about his wife and about his younger boy now too. On the way home that afternoon he stopped to buy milk at the "24x7", the convenience store on Main St, across from the cemetery. They charged a dollar less a gallon than the supermarkets. When his two kids'd been home and they'd been putting away a gallon a day, that dollar'd been important. Now not so much. The girl stood behind the register. It was quite a shock to see how pretty she was. Pale skin with dark arching eyebrows over bright brown eyes, a slight band of freckles on her cheeks. It was all he could do to walk past her and back to the refrigerators for the milk. He felt confident she wouldn't recognize him. He certainly wouldn't say anything. A gray haired woman, roughly his own age, was at the register before him, buying a package of Pampers. She looked a bit familiar, possibly the mother of one of his sons' friends, or maybe he'd seen her at school band concerts or drama club performances. He thought the girl looked a little tense as she made change. The woman said to the girl, "Do I know you?" The girl shook her head. "Maybe you know my daughter, Susan? She was Susan Westerly? Now Susan Highgartener. No? She was class of 2001." The girl said briefly, "Wasn't my year." "Oh well, these are for her new baby. My granddaughter! She called and said she was about running out." "Very precocious." The woman laughed, "See you," she said automatically and took her purchase. Turning she glanced at him without interest. She showed no sign of recognition. He felt a bit of loneliness. Despite having lived in that town for 20 years, it was rare that he ran into anyone he knew and then it was usually some parent from when his kids were little, with whom there'd been exchanged play dates. Most often he couldn't remember their names. "Well, if it isn't my fellow restless spirit," the girl greeted him as he placed the plastic quart on the counter. He felt a surge of stupid gratitude. "Will that be all? We do sell the inflatable lawn ornaments, you know. The variety pack gets you like not only Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, BUT NOW, Valentine's day and President's day as well. A cupid, a condom, and a Bush." She paused, "One of those is a joke," she grinned, "That'll be 75 cents." "Hello?" she asked when he just stood there. The door swung open, sounding the bell, and a pair of young guys came in, their van sat idling in the parking lot, "Arnold & Sons" over "Plumbing, Heating and Cooling". Their eyes lit up at the sight of her. One nudged the other. He pulled himself together. "That's it, thanks," he said, reaching into his pocket for the change. As he paid, his hand touched hers for just an instant. The two guys approached the counter, each with a six pack. "Give me a pack of Marlboros and five Mega Millions. I'm feeling lucky." "If you were really lucky, one would do," she observed, then "Bye!" she called to him as he pushed out of the door into the bright fall sunshine. He unlocked the door to his dim silent house. All was quiet for a moment, then there was the sound of frantic paws on the stairs, pounding like rain on a car. Dart banged into him with her forepaws and then began spinning in a tight circle at his feet, trembling with joy. Looking at her, he remembered how not that long ago his two boys, maybe 4 and 7, would sit in the grass by the drive at about the time he was likely to drive up from work. How they'd at first try to be cool, standing side by side by the car door, saying a solemn "Hi Dad", then they'd break down and be all over him. Bridge Work He looked about his kitchen and listened to the dark house without enthusiasm. Dart scratched his leg and with a sigh he slipped into his routine, getting her food, 3/4 cup of dried IAMS with a spoonful of canned Alpo as a tasty topping. While she snorted it down, he clipped on her leash and extracted a couple plastic bags from a drawer. ------------------------------------ She sat on the front bench seat of the van, sipping a Bud, a guy on either side of her. They were parked under a tree on the drive in a back corner of cemetery. Folks often stopped there to take a nap or to eat a lunch or whatever. The sun hung low behind them in the west, the shadow of the van stretched long over the grass and stones. She paid no attention to the sports talk babbling out of the radio, ("The Ravens have a brutal defensive frontline that's tough to run against. Add to the mix a Bengal offensive line that's banged up substantially, and it's fairly certain that Palmer will be throwing..."), to the hand on her thigh or to the arm over her shoulders. On the floor at her feet lay the discarded scratch tickets. "Guess you weren't so lucky," she'd observed, "Just didn't know what direction my luck was running," the guy'd said in reply. In the distance a woman pushed a stroller along the drive. She had no trouble recognizing her sister. She frowned. From the other direction she saw the man coming, his dog making a wide cheerful out of control arc at the end of her leash. The guy on her left said, "Steve McNair is gonna tear them apart." "The shit you say," replied his buddy. "And the Wildcats are gonna kick Jordan High's ass tomorrow night." "You're off your nut, that kid Jordan's got playing center, he owns the fucking hoop." "He's a puss..." She toned them out and heard her sister say, clear despite the 100 yards of distance, "Shit! It's gone again." She grinned and shifted so her jeaned thigh pressed against the guy on her right, his arm dropped down to her waist. She watched the dog guy, her guy, pause and look at her sister curiously. "The flag," her sister said to him, seeing that she'd been overheard, "This's my Dad's grave. He was in the Army so there's supposed to be a flag, but it's always disappearing. It wouldn't matter, except that my Mom likes to see it. She drives through here some days on her way home from the Senior Center." She shook her head. "I'll just have to get another one. It's so tiresome. None of the other flags seem to go missing!" The guy stared at her sister. He had to be figuring that she was her aunt or something and they hadn't been friendly in the store. Her sister glanced at the dog and then smiled, "Hey, I recognize that dog. You're Dave Miller's dad right? Dave used to come to our house for drama club rehearsals. I remember you always drove up with that dog head and shoulders out the passenger window. What's Dave doing now? He must be, what, a senior in college?" "Yes," he said, "At Antioch." "My Susan's been out a year, she went to OSU. This is her little baby. Little Trudy. They named her after her aunt who's buried right there by my dad. I thought it a mistake. My sister was wild. But my mother likes it. I do think it's better to name children after some relative. Better than just picking something that appeals at the time." "Bitch!" she muttered. "Huh?" the guy who was pulling at her blouse asked. "Nothing," she concentrated on her sister. Her sister laughed, "But I'm talking too much. Dave coming home for Thanksgiving?" "No," her guy said. "He has an I guess serious girlfriend. He's going to her folks in Atlanta." "Guess it is serious. I was lucky. Susan and Fred both are close by. Course, it means I'm getting back into the mothering business." She looked at the baby and laughed again, not too regretfully. Just then the baby made a short tempered kind of if-you-don't-get-me-rolling-I'll-be-screaming-again noise and her sister said, "Well, young Trude is displeased so I better get moving. Nice to see you!" "Shithead!" the girl said angrily. "What?" The two guys stopped what they were doing, one had her bra off, the other was beavering away at her jeans. "Not you," she said shortly. She watched her sister push the stroller down the path. Her guy stood by the graves for a good few minutes before his dog saw a crow land some distance away and yanked him into motion. "Let's" said one of the guys. "OK" she completed his thought with a sigh. ------------------------------------ "Catch," she said and tossed the six pack at the dim figure sprawled below her. A thin drizzle fell outside the shelter of the bridge. Cars passing overhead made splashing slithery echoey sounds. She pulled off her raincoat, her sweater, her t-shirt, and bra. She dropped her jeans and panties and sat on the sleeping bag, the thin mattress did little to soften the cement. She bent forward and took off her running shoes and socks and slid her pants the rest of the way over her knees and shins and feet and let them lie in the dirt. In a stillness between cars she heard the pop of the cap and the swirl of the beer. She slipped her legs into the sleeping bag. "You're cold," he complained. "Give me a sip of that." She felt his hot hand on her thigh as she tipped the can and swallowed. "Two beers a day prevents heart attack," he said, "It's a proven fact." She snorted. His hand found her cunt, his fingers worked into it. "You've been catting around." "Yep. A couple of guys, plumbers," she paused, then "Your nephews." "Doesn't bother me, honey," he said. His lips slipped along her neck down to her shoulders. She lay back. His lips moved on to her nipples. She squirmed so she lay against him, feeling his warmth along all her skin. "I think I've finally gotten lucky," she said. He murmured, "Let's" "Fuck." she finished for him. "OK." She felt his weight upon her and felt the cement hard on her ass. She felt him squirm a bit to get between her thighs. She felt his hands under her knees lifting and spreading her legs. The sleeping bag felt like a tent, cool air flowed down over her shoulders. She felt his cock pressing up against her. Now that she had agreed, he of course had no more interest in foreplay. She reached down and placed him at her entrance. She felt him push in. It felt good. She caught her breath and then let it out in a sigh. She let herself float in her memories. ------------------------------------ He would've only said he was half asleep when the dream kicked in. His dog lay at the foot of the bed, he could feel her bulk warm through the covers. He heard her make a licking sound and then shift. The empty silent dark flowed out the bedroom door. It filled the corridor and the stairs. To get downstairs he imagined he'd have to swim like a diver in a sunken ship, intentionally sunk after all of value'd been looted. Here is the dream as it played in his mind: He sits on hard wooden bleachers. Thighs and shoulders press against him on either side. His feet are in uncomfortable black boots, resting on rough two-by-fours. His shins and knees push against the kid in front of him. He wears a blue wool uniform, two rows of gold buttons go down the breast of the coat, the pants have gold stripes down the legs. There's a saxophone between his legs. Dark brown hair cascades about either side of his face, fingers of it blow before his eyes. The air is cold and there's a nasty wind. His hands are stuffed inside his coat, under his breasts. Band members have to wear the useless thin white gloves, even in the stands. His breasts' overhang and his stomach form a much needed warmer. He looks intently at the football field, cocking his head to see around the plumed hat of the bandmember in front of him. Everything about the football field is sharp with hard shadows cast by the brilliant suspended squares of lights. The crisp lines across the field have already been messed, the lime smearing on the grass. The girl next to him turns and says, "3rd and 7. They'll give it to Steve, Trudy. You watch." He knows that this neighbor and Steve are going out. Like all his friends, he's desperately envious. He knows that he is dreaming that he is the girl he met in the cemetery. He has never dreamt of being a girl before, but it doesn't feel odd. In fact, squeezed on either side, elbows poking his ribs, dressed in a wool uniform, feeling it scratch his legs, feeling the frost-cold night air on his neck, every bit of him feels exactly like it's always felt. It feels great to be pressed on all sides, his sleeping self feels a sense of lost longing. He watches the players line up. There is the snap and a loud thud and grunt as the lines surge forward and collide. There's a handoff and a player with 37 on his uniform has the ball and is running hard. They leap to their feet and start yelling. 37 gets to the far sidelines almost back to the line of scrimmage. There's no hope. There's a missed tackle and they shout. 37 turns and runs hard the other way, arcing back, heading for their own goal in fact. Players race in a mob after him. 37 keeps arcing, pounding right in front of the stands. He knows that this player's name is Steve Arnold. He has a flash of memory of this guy swaggering down the halls, broad shouldered, electrically exciting, a flash of the guy slouching at his desk, hardly paying attention, Steve's father's a plumber and Steve expects to go to work for his father and makes no secret of being bored. The field is clear before him. Steve crosses the line of scrimmage, already having run nearly 50 yards. This is the sort of play that can only happen in high school football. He runs and runs, the wildcat decorating the back of his jersey seems to bob and leap like it's alive, all the other players from both teams stream behind. Steve drops dead with exhaustion in the endzone. He grabs his sax and with the rest of the band begins playing the Wildcat's fight song. Almost any note will do. His fingers are so cold they hardly bend at all. The important thing is to make noise and stay sort of with the beat. The frantic noise faded and he woke. He thought of the dream and realized that he'd become aroused. Why he didn't exactly know. The details of the dream slipped away. He thought that that was the good thing about dreams, how they faded. All he could remember was drums and excitement. He considered getting up and walking down the dark silent hall to the bathroom to masturbate. It would help him sleep. Erotic dreams had grown very rare. Even though they always left him feeling sad and forlorn, when he was in them, he didn't want them to stop. He rolled onto his side and thought of how the girl'd looked there in the pale morning light. ------------------------------------ Steve grunted and she felt him spend inside her. He slumped and his weight lay full upon her. She stretched, straightening her legs so they lay just outside his, stretching her arms, lifting her bottom and back to relieve some of the stress. "Shit," she said, staring unsatisfied up at the grimy underside of the bridge. She pushed and slipped out from under his dead weight. He groaned and rolled onto his back, flopping his arm so it stretched across her chest, his hand on her thigh. "It was so awful," she said, "There was my sister. She came into the store, like 50 years old and buying pampers. I wanted to say, "Hey! Look at me! Remember me? I'm your sister! But of course I couldn't. I just said that'll be 12.95 and made change." "Why bother working there? You knew it was going to happen sometime or other? Wait till your mom stops by to buy a scratch ticket or something." "It's like something to do. And you do like your beer". "I do," he lifted himself up. "Shit, it's spilled." She listened to him extract another can from the plastic, open it and drink. "I live for beer, for sleep, and for fucking. Oh, and for when they're doing bridge or road work. Messing with their tools, shaking their ladders. Remember that pickup? I let the brake out and popped it into neutral, just a little push and down the hill it rolled, right into the creek? Remember all those guys running after it, waving their arms? I about died laughing." "It was pretty funny." "And remember that Statey? He'd pulled some poor kid over for doing 95. Just as he was leaning into the window I pulled down his pants. Broad daylight and there was his fat ass, grinning at the traffic." His hand shifted from her thigh to her moist cunt. "But you know," he said, "You don't really need to work to keep me in beer. That found beer is OK too. The cans kids throw into the woods there by the cemetery, the cans tossed out car windows onto the shoulder. I really like the taste of the little bit left in those cans. It's got a little kick to it, you know, from the spit." She sighed. She unzipped the sleeping bag and put her hand down on his limp cock and burrowed into the sleeping bag. Her bottom and thighs and the small of her back felt cold, pushed as they were out into the chill night air. She put her hand under his balls, invisible in the humid inky blackness and touched the base of his cock with her tongue. He made a surprised pleased grunt and moved his hands into her hair. She licked along him, following his limp curve, feeling it move and stretch under her tongue. The taste was sour and salty and disagreeable. "There's hope for you yet," he murmured. She licked around his head, caressing his base with her fingers. She took him into her mouth, letting him lie on her tongue, feeling him against the roof and back of her mouth. It felt nauseating. She began to suck. After a moment she lifted her head and slid up next to him and lay on her back. "Hey," he complained. "You can take it from here," she said. "Bitch," he complained, rolling onto her and pushing himself back in. "Asshole," she replied, squirming under him. She zipped the bag back up and raised her knees against it. As he began to pump, she again let her mind wander. ------------------------------------ He did indeed dream again: He stands in the familiar to him high school corridor, his shoulder against a locker, his back against a cement block wall. A guy is standing in front of him, so close he can smell the guy's cigarette soured breath, smell the spice of the guy's deodorant, the soap of the shower he'd taken after gym. The guy's hands are holding his. They are standing as close as they can get away with, closer, his breasts, well his sweater, just brushes the guy's shirt, blue check button down permapress, the guy's t-shirt is exposed at his open collar. His eyes are level with the guy's throat, his head is tipped up and he is gazing raptly into the guy's eyes. Neither speaks. The guy is Steve Arnold. They have been dating two weeks. He is flushed with excitement. Students are pushing past. Intent on getting to their next class, not so intent that they don't glance over at him. He is aware of his knee, an inch below the edge of his skirt, pressing against the guy's leg. He's sharply aware of each girl who passes, especially the ones he envies. He sees his father come up the hall, heading for the chemistry/physics classroom which is in the new wing of the building. He sees his father's face tighten with disapproval, sees his mouth open to say something then choke it and move on. The bell rings. Steve says "Let's split. Let's go to Flint Hollows and park." Steve grins down at him and he feels his face flush. He feels hot between his legs. They haven't yet, well, he won't let himself think what they haven't yet done, but it's not for want of Steve's trying. He's about to agree but then he pushes away and says "No Steve, I gotta get to class." The dream shifts, the way dreams do. He stands in the living room of his house. The house he's lived in all the eighteen years of his life. Everything is worn and disgustingly familiar. Old cheap shit. His Mom sits on the couch, he sits on the stuffed chair by the window, his Dad stands by the fireplace. He knows his Dad is angrier than he's ever seen him. He feels both scared and triumphant. He knows that there is nothing they can do that he can't trump. His mother goes, "Darling, we both think that your seeing this boy is a real mistake." "Jesus that's an understatement!" his father shouted. "That kid!" "Dan, you promised to let me handle this," his mother says. What hangs unsaid in the room is this: three weeks ago his Dad gave Steve a failing grade on a test. Steve gave his Dad the finger. After a trip to the office, his Dad had had to, as he'd said, eat large portions of tasty crow stew. What could he've been thinking of? Fail a starting forward and the second leading scorer on the basketball team? Fail an ace starting pitcher come spring? Fail the boy whose football heroics had defeated the fiends of Hebron that fall? Fail the boy whose father was Chairman of the School Board? It could never happen. Thinking about Steve and his Dad at the same time makes him feel simultaneously scared and elated. His Dad can do nothing for him, Steve, everything. "Darling," his mother continues, "You're eighteen. You'll be away at college in less than six months. We'll certainly have no say over who you see or how you behave there. There's little we can do now that's sensible. I wish from the bottom of my heart that you saw this boy the way your father and I do. My saying that won't change a thing unfortunately. What I hope is that you'll have some consideration for us and stick to the rules we've laid down. Rules that worked for your older sister and that have for the most part worked for you as well. Rules that we made for your own good." His mind's voice says, "Yeah, right", but without much conviction. Outwardly he just manages to look sullen and uncooperative. "I'll only add that regardless of what you think of us, you aren't such an idiot as to let your grades slip. You haven't been accepted yet but once you are, they'll insist you graduate with good grades and with roughly your current class rank." When he doesn't say anything but sullenly stares at his sneakers, his mother goes, "Darling, will you at least promise us that much?" He jumps up, feigning anger, but really near tears. "Shit Mom, I'm not a baby. Don't treat me like one!" and he stomps out of the room. "You watch your language," his father shouts, unable to contain himself. He hears his mother say, "Calm yourself, Dan. Let it go. It'll be alright. She's not stupid." The dream changes. As he clatters down the stair, his mother calls, "Tell that boy that we live on a residential street, not a drag strip. Kids ride their bikes out there. He should go slow! And tell him to come to the front door and knock. He shouldn't just sit out there honking!" He is out on the front porch and down the walk to the waiting yellow Mustang. He hops in and leans over and kisses Steve, feeling his hand on his waist. He is giddily aware of the number of rules he's going to be breaking that night. He skids across the bench seat so his thigh and side press against Steve's. The car screeches into motion and he is pressed firmly back into the cushion. Red lights flash behind them, old-style retro cop lights. A siren wails. "Your fucking Dad!" Steve swears as they come to a stop. 30 minutes later they pull up at the party. From outside the music and thump of the beat is quite loud. Inside, with the shout of kids trying to talk and laugh, it's astounding. He revels in the glances he gets from girls who look over at him, envying the guy he's with. The words sung by such an insinuating knowing voice seem to swell all around him, inside and out, reverberating through his dreaming self: Bridge Work "Her name is Aphrodite And she rides a crimson shell And you know you cannot leave her For you touched the distant sands With tales of brave Ulysses How his naked ears were tortured By the sirens sweetly singing And you want to take her with you To the hard land of the winter" As he bobs up and down to the beat, his side rubbing Steve's, a guy he knows by sight, who hangs out with Steve, comes up. Steve laughs at him. "Asshole," the guy shouts. "I'm sorry about it man," shouts Steve. Steve leans down to him and shouts in his ear. "This is really funny, Trudy. Me and some guys were driving home last night. We'd been drinking some beers over in Flint Hollow State Park. Tim, who's in the back seat, he says he needs to take a leak so I pull over. Tim gets out, is gone a minute and comes back and off we go." "Leaving me, asshole!" shouts Roger. "Hey man, I didn't know you'd gotten out too! You guys should learn to hold it!" He listens to the conversation swirl about him, it's volume turned way up to be heard over the drums and guitars. It feels great to be among these guys. He feels the envious eyes of girls looking over. A month ago his would've been one of their number. He leans against Steve and puts an arm around his back, then with a flush, slips his hand into Steve's back pocket. Another guy chips in, "We didn't know you weren't there until we got to your place to drop you off. I said, 'Shit where's Roger?' We hadn't a clue." Steve shouted, "I said, 'The fucker started out back there didn't he?' It was like you'd just vanished, man. We forgot all about the pit stop." "Then we saw a prowl car coming up the street and we split." "I come out of the woods and there's no fucking car," Roger shouted with a laugh, "I stick out my thumb and who should stop but the fuzz! He thought it was pretty funny. Not my Dad, he had a cow. You guys may be seniors, I'm a junior. I'm grounded for life." Steve laughed, "This explains you're being here, how?" "I jumped out my window. See these scratches? And I got poison ivy when I was taking that leak!" He made a show of scratching his crotch. Steve laughs again and puts an owning hand on his bottom and shouts, "I'm getting a beer, you want anything Trudy?" "A coke," he shouts in reply. This gets a laugh from the guys who've clustered around. "Shit," shouts Steve, "I'm not getting you a coke. You can get that for yourself," and he is off into the crush. A girl, Dana, who's never noticed him before comes up and shouts. "Hey Trudy! Come down in the basement. Let's shoot some pool." The one time he'd been here before, at a party at which, though barricaded upstairs, the parents were safely present, he'd made his way down into the basement. There'd been a crowd of girls around the pool table. He'd watched for a moment then gone disconsolately back upstairs to stand by a friend along the wall. This time the crush parts miraculously before him and he finds himself playing pool with Sandra, cheerleader, yearbook editor and homecoming runner up, the girl's whose house, well whose parents' house, this is. Some time later a hand touches his shoulder and a girl shouts in his ear, "Steve's look'n for you, he's upstairs." He hands the cue off and makes his way back up. In the living room someone else points up the stairs to the second floor. He feels the weight of eyes as he climbs to the second floor, he tries to move like a boy, with no motion in his rear. The words surrounding him now are: "If you want to get to heaven, over on the other shore, stay out of the way of the long-tongue liar. Oh good shepherd feed my sheep." He makes his way to what must be the parents' bedroom. Steve is waiting for him, a Bud on the bedtable. He feels a wave of desire and gratitude. Steve shuts the door. "It was a lot of work clearing out the rabble," he says as he bends and kisses him. He presses himself against Steve, swaying to the sound of the guitars and drums that echo through the room. They fall together onto the bed. For the moment all they do is neck and clutch through their clothes. He feels hot and breathless. He closes his eyes as Steve pushes at his blouse and fumbles with his bra. He feels suddenly sophisticated and superior. He twists and undoes it. Steve is on to other things. He feels the tug at his jeans and underwear. He lifts his bottom off the bed. He feels Steve's hands on his skin as the stiff material slides down his legs. He's exposed from shoulders to knees. Steve is undoing his own belt. The bedroom door bursts open and the music redoubles in volume and there's the sound of surprised excited laughter. He flushes red and frantically pulls at his jeans, his panties bunch and bind uncomfortably, he tugs his blouse back down and rushes from the room and down the stairs, his breasts bouncing, he's left his bra behind. He finds the phone in the kitchen and calls home. In the hall he hears someone shouting gleefully, "He had Trudy's pants down to her ankles!". "Mom," he shouts, "Can you come get me?" Steve is beside him. "You're not going! You came with me and you're going with me!" He slaps Steve as hard as he can to the sound of more laughter and rushes out the hall and front door. He hears Steve shout, "Hey Trude! You're forgetting something!" He hears the laughter and doesn't look back. His Mom picks him up on the street as the red lights of the police bear down on the party. On the ride home, through his tears, what he thinks about is the way the girls'd looked at him when he was with Steve, about what Monday will be like with the humiliation, about how hard the humiliation would be to bear in the darkness away from Steve. The dream changes again. He stands on a patch of grass and dirt. Spreading to his right is a marsh thick with cattails. The low cloud cover forms a kind of reddish suspended ceiling which, by reflecting the city and highway lights, provides a glowering indirect illumination. Everything looks heavy, sodden, and colorless. Just to his left is a highway overpass. There's a steady hiss of cars and an occasional rumble of trucks. Each throws brief light on the trees up on the high ground beyond the swamp, giving the trees sudden brief colorless life. A cold drizzle fills the air. A mist wisps above the creek. He recognizes the place. He and his kids and sometimes his wife used to canoe here, paddling up the lazy stream. The bridge always proved a high point of the outing, the kids glorying in fear and excitement as the structure echoed and groaned and stank and the cars and trucks raced unseen overhead. Often too, the canoe would shake and tip and swing into rocks no matter what he did. He'd have to get out and pull. Even then the canoe would fight him, his two boys laughing, his wife, if she were along, going, "Stop it! Tom. Stop fooling around! It's not funny at all!" The girl stands in the water before him, its black surface cutting her off at the knees. If it weren't a dream, he'd've looked embarrassedly away, instead her naked form fills his eyes. The drizzle coats her skin with pale gold. Her breasts are firm and high, her nipples twin unblinking eyes, her pubic hair an open dark chasm of a mouth. She holds out a hand to him and he steps into the water. He knows it's cold but somehow also feels it's like the summer water he and his kids'd swum in. His wife always tried to stop them and wouldn't go in herself from a probably sensible fear of pollution. The girl turns and leads him, the water splashing about their knees. His eyes are on her bottom, her shoulders, the awkward way her arms swing. In the dark water behind her he sees her reflection, swaying and bobbing on the disturbed surface. An unseen drowned branch hits his shins and tangles between his legs and he spills into the water with flailing splashes and a shout. He stumbles to his feet. She is twenty yards up the stream, mist floating about her thighs and waist. He catches up to her where the creek opens into a small pond. Lily pads brush her waist and bob and part as she passes. Frogs leap as the water grows shallow, providing brief glimpses of desperate life. She stretches on the bank, rushes and cattails all about her. A crushed stalk rebounds between her legs, brushing against her sex. She chuckles lightly, lifts her leg up and forces the stalk down beneath her thighs. She reaches a hand up and pulls him down beside her. The weeds snap under him and feel slimy and coarse. He puts his hand on her slick waist, so warm and elastic. Her belly is springy and soft, gently rising and falling. He is consumed with desire. Years of dutiful lovemaking help him suppress it. He shifts, the grasses whisper under him. He spreads her legs and kneels between them, his feet in the stream, his knees in soft muck. He bends and touches her sex with his tongue. He hears her gasp with surprise. He caresses her with fingers naturally moist from the mist. He spreads her sex. He pushes his tongue in as far as it will go, then licks up. He feels his way to her nub. His eyes are closed and he tries to forget the smell and taste, to ignore the coarseness of her thatch. He slips a hand up along her flank, up to a breast and cups it. It feels so nice. He concentrates on that, letting his tongue run the course he'd used on his wife for years: lick her clitoris, tongue down pressing to the left, push into her entrance, tongue up pressing to the right, attend to her clitoris, around and around. In his mind he counts the circuits, 50 always seemed a good round number. She begins to push up with her thighs so his nose is sometimes unpleasantly against her. He pushes his tongue up her as far as he can, his wife always said that his best trick was how he could roll his tongue. He feels her buck in earnest. He hears her gasp, "Oh! Oh shit!" Her hands grip his hair and push his face hard against her, her thighs tighten and loosen against his cheeks. Her skin feels silky and elastic and so nice. Her smell is overpowering, her dark wiry hair gets in his nose and eyes, she bounces against him, the reeds beneath her rustle and crunch, she gasps and cries loudly. The sound echos, lost and empty and wild. When she is still, he kisses his way up her belly arriving at her breasts. He fondles them with pleasure, kissing down one and up the other. They are firm, their nipples eager small pyramids. As it's a dream he says what comes to him without filter, "I wonder what sort of Pharaoh lies buried within and what his afterlife is like." "I hope the grave robbers've cleaned him out," she says, looking down, "I hate clutter in a graveyard. No never-ending kisses or wind chimes or battery lights for him." Then her hands grip his head and pull him higher, her hips press up against him, her sex slides against his stomach. He looks into her eyes. They are wild and young and eager. Her warm cold rain slick fingers grip his cock. He feels sad. This being a dream he will wake shortly, if he were young, he'd wake to a mess, as he's old, there'll just be a sense of loss and emptiness. "That was great," she whispers. "I never felt anything like it." She shifts under him to get properly positioned and he feels himself enter her. Now, he thinks, I will wake. Then I can masturbate and get some sleep. She feels wonderful, tight and slick and warm. So tight he finds he cannot get more than an inch in and must work his thighs up and down. She lifts her legs and locks her feet above him, he feels her heels on his bottom. He slides all the way in. He rests hot upon her, hot within her, hair tangled, feeling her pelvis hard against his. He kisses her for the first time and her mouth is wide and seems to engulf him. He feels her teeth with his tongue and the roof of her mouth. He feels her tongue under his. He wishes he could push it in further and match his efforts below. He whispers, "With a little genetic engineering, people could be given the tongues of frogs." She bounces her hips against him and says, "Get to work." He does, sliding slowly in and out, the flesh of her tunnel seems to cling to him, letting him slide out only reluctantly. He rocks his hips to make sure his angle varies, his wife would be sure to complain if he didn't. His hands slip along her back, feeling the slick bed of rushes and reeds on which she lies. She grips his rain slick shoulders, then slips one hand between their bellies, he feels her fingers press against him as he slips in and out, her knuckles press against his stomach as she fondles herself. Her other hand slips behind his thighs and he feels her fingers on his balls. He feels her hips press up against him, her legs shifting along his side, splashing in the water. Inside he feels her muscles tighten about him, clutching him, like the squeeze of a lover's hand. He remembers his wife, lying still under him, passively letting him take his due. He gasps and begins working harder. He sees her gleaming pale breasts rocking beneath him. He closes his eyes and is lost in her panting, his shortness of breath, his rising pleasure. He knows he must wake. Surely before his climax. His calves and thighs cramp almost painfully. He clutches her to him and holds his hips hard against hers as his excited pleasure engulfs him and he spasms within her. Her fingernails cut his back and her choked cry seems distant and fierce. Still he does not wake. The dream shifts slightly. They sit side by side, backs to the bank, hips and legs in the dark water. One of her legs is hooked over his, her knee a dim white island where it breaks the surface. The surface tension causes the water to dip just before it touches her flesh, it's like she's untouchable. Through the water, he sees a long red scratch on his calf where the underwater snag scraped him earlier. She runs a toe along it. He feels its faint sting. He feels her side against his. His back is on the bank. He can feel the stalks of grass and rushes and a rock or two. Her head rests on his shoulder, her breath hot on his nipples. Her hair, wet and aromatic, is draped over his shoulders and about his lips. He thinks he is only partially asleep, some corner of his mind is aware of his dog. She's burrowed under the covers now, her bony spine pressed against his side. ------------------------------------ Steve looked down at where she lay half conscious, still impaled on his cock. "Hey honey, I think you're getting to like it at long last!" Without opening her eyes, she said "Asshole", then "Shutup and fuck". "Honey your wish is my command," and he began to slide in and out once more. ------------------------------------ "That was amazing," she says, "I never knew it could be so good." He thinks of all the dreary times he's made love to his wife, running through that script from duty, a final unwanted spasm of pleasure for reward. It'd never felt so good for him either, and of course, he thinks, it's just a dream. His best sex is in a dream. To say something, he says, "Well, you're young. You can't've" then he flushes and stops. She chuckles, "Can't've been screwed that many times?" She bites his nipple lightly, "If only you knew." A car roars on the highway. Its lights hit the trees on the hill behind the far bank. Individual trees flash into focus, then the headlights move on and the woods return to a dark blur. "You know," she says, her toe still idly slipping along his scrape, "This is the same stream that flows through town and along the edge of the cemetery. This water," she gave it a kick, "Might've been there this morning. You could like get up and splash home." He has a vision of himself climbing up the slope into the cemetery, walking naked past the sleeping graves, past the sleeping residential houses with their waking decorations, into his house and up the stairs and then standing silent, looking down at his sleeping self and dog. Her hand touches his cock where it floats in the dark creek water. "That last time was almost good enough," she says as he stiffens, "Let's try again." She swings herself over him, water splashes and drips. She bends and kisses him. His hands grip her firm narrow waist. Her fingers position him and she slips herself down as his erection rises up within her. This time he lets her do everything, looking up, admiring her soft beautiful face, it still possesses the smooth gleaming bloom of youth. He admires the straining muscles of her thighs, the lines of tendons that tighten and stretch as she slides up and down him, he admires the ripples that spread in the water, the slight splashes. He admires the sway of her breasts, he lifts a hand and feels them bob against it. He watches her collarbone how it stands out against her elastic flesh, how her throat moves as she gasps for breath. He feels her hands grip his shoulders, watches the muscles move in her arms as she pulls against him. He watches her face flashing into view as her hair swings back and forth. Her eyes are clinched tight. He feels the excitement in his cock, in his balls. It's a pleasant and undemanding sensation. There is no sign of a climax, nor does he want one, this dream could go on forever. She pauses, the tip of his cock all that's within her. Her fingers dip into the water and then slide along him, from his balls to where he vanishes within her. The sensation is intense and he pushes his hips up. He slides his hands along her waist and back over her belling bottom, feeling how tense and smooth and slick her skin is. He slides his hands up her sides to her face and pulls her down and kisses her. She bites his lips hungrily then begins working herself up and down his length again. After a delicious time she pauses, chuckles ruefully at some thought that is opaque to him, sighs, bends and kisses him and he woke, alone in the dark, filled with need. This time he did get heavily out of bed and stumbled down the dark empty hall to the bathroom and sat on the toilet and masturbated. It wasn't long before his whole body seemed to clinch tight and his cock experienced a brief painful pinch of pleasure as it spat into the toilet paper. Spent, he noticed the thin scrape along his calf where in the dream the submerged branch had snagged him. ------------------------------------ She opened her eyes, looking up at the bridge. "It's not going to work out," she sighed. "Nonsense, honey," Steve murmured, sated and half asleep. "We're our class's most successful couple. We've been together 35 years. All the other guy's've split up and remarried dozens of times." "Asshole," she said. ------------------------------------ He woke feeling tired and heavy. He stared at the ceiling trying to remember the dreams. He thought if he could, he'd be energized and happy. All he could call up was drums and music and the substanceless memory of the sensation of sex and the dark weed choked stream and a painfully sharp image of the girl, standing naked in the water. Dart wriggled under the covers and pushed her nose into his side and scratched him with an eager forepaw. Once he was awake, she wanted action. Their morning walk was drizzly and thankfully uneventful. He took her along deserted residential streets. The only sign of life was a dog in one of the houses they passed, standing at a window and barking out at them, scrabbling at the glass. After breakfast he stared without enthusiasm out the window at his car in the driveway. He started up his laptop and sent email to his group, the subject line a single word, "WAH", the body empty. Shortly he got email back, "Hey man," it read, "Get your ass in here and make the coffee! I'm thirsty." He smiled slightly and sent in reply, "Funny, I was just gonna ask you to get off your own rear and drive over with a cup for me. That office coffee is soo good."