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Lemonade and White Melons Ch. 02

By: Nigel Debonnaire



The hot water of the shower banished the shampoo from Chris Jenkins' hair. It was a limpid spray, but effective. He soaped up his pudgy, 30 year old body after rinsing his beard and taking care to cleanse the leftover ejaculate from his genitals and legs. The early morning masturbation gave him long needed release after the night of stimulating dreams, and he was ready to focus on other things once his morning routine was over. Maybe it was time to work on his latest story; he'd been playing with an idea for a quest to rescue a damsel from a dragon, but needed a twist to make the story interesting. 

His body washed, he emerged to towel off and complete his ritual. As he brushed his teeth, he focused on what his heroine should look like: a tall redhead with long flowing hair, breasts like turrets of a castle, and an attitude like Marian Ravenswood from the Raiders of the Lost Ark? The hero crossed his mind: perhaps a historian who left a monastery when he came of age and spent his life as a wandering merchant. 

Clad in a long flowing bathrobe, he booted up his computer and checked his e-mail. There was an average amount of spam in his folder, as well as a note from an unfamiliar address. Opening it, he read:

Chris,

I am sorry if I embarrassed you yesterday. Obviously I went too far, too fast and scared you. Please forgive my impulsiveness. In future, I will conduct myself more appropriately.

Your stories online are quite good, and I want to help you get them published in hardcover. There are a few concerns I have about your story telling and would like to speak with you about them. If you could stop by before you go to work today, we can talk about this and anything else on your mind.

Sincerely yours,

Anna Pearson 

Shaking his head, he stood up quickly and got himself a bowl of cereal from his little kitchen. The feel of Frau Pearson's breasts and their milky whiteness haunted him, and his exhausted loins began to stir again. Devouring raisin bran and milk, the embarrassment of his attraction to her returned in force. 

He went online to play his favorite game, spending the morning in another world. Being lost in character gave his subconscious a chance to work things out better: there wasn't any reason he couldn't see Frau Pearson. She wanted to help him and she promised to behave. When she was his teacher, she was known for iron discipline, and now she was in her 70's. If he had any improper thoughts, he could control himself, after all, he was 30 years old and not a teenager anymore. He remembered his buddy Dave Chapman's confession how she was his lust interest in High School, and that made Dave weirder than he was. The insight helped him relax. Exiting the game, he took a look at his old stories on the Internet, and checked how often they were downloaded. The numbers weren't bad, but if he could get something published and actually be established as an author, he could kiss the convenience store job goodbye and maybe move out of his mother's basement. His fingers drummed the table as he thought: I need to see her, but. . . If he waited until 2:30PM and went in his working clothes, he could give her a small window of time to say her piece without a chance of anything else developing.

Frau Pearson's clean and neat house was shaded from the hot August afternoon sunlight. He knocked on the front door, and looked down the street to see if anyone he knew spotted him. Stupid, he said to himself, you've been doing the yardwork here for three weeks, nobody's going to think you're strange for being here. 

"Good afternoon, Chris," Anna Pearson said, opening the door. She wore a demure, short sleeve brown dress and black flat shoes, her face and hair impeccable and golden stud earrings in her lobes. "Please come into my study upstairs and we'll talk."

They mounted the creaky stairs and took an immediate right into her study. This room was lined with bookcases as well, with new computer equipment resting on an elaborate doily topping an antique desk. Two glasses of lemonade rested on a sideboard across the room and she offered him one. They sipped the drinks, silent and tense, until she tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard and opened a window with his website.

"I have some observations about your work, Chris. You're improved greatly since you were in High School, and you have real promise. My granddaughter is an editor for a publishing house in New York, and agrees with me, however there are a couple of things you need to work on. Are you interested?"

He relaxed at the news, and leaned forward. "Yes, yes. Tell me what I have to do. I'll do anything." Chris immediately wanted to pull the last sentence back before it took effect, but she ignored it.

"You have a vivid imagination, which makes your plot lines very creative and unpredictable. The way you describe your scenes is brilliant: I think I'm actually standing on other worlds when I read your space stories. The dialogue is ingenious, I laughed so hard a couple of times I cried. Your heroes are all in their early 20's: I think you can branch out and try some heroes at different stages in their lives, but we'll talk about that later. 

"The main issue Angela and I have is your characters are all 2 dimensional. I know what Princess Brenda and Sir Toadwart look like and what they can do, but I don't know how they think and feel, or why they are the way they are. This is particularly bad with your villains: it's like they're an obstacle course rather than sentient beings. I know a lot of movies these days don't draw their characters up very well, but you're better than that."

Chris bit his lip, then took a sip from his glass. He noticed how she said Ahn-ge-la with a hard G, the wisps of film at the corners of the window, the depth and sparkle of her blue eyes, the rich sonority of her voice. It wasn't far from the husky tone of yesterday. Trembling, he tried to assimilate what she was telling him. No one had given him such feedback since his brief collegiate career. That was why he dropped out: he couldn't take criticism.

"I can see you're hurt, Chris," her face soft and consoling. "Please don't take this personally. If you didn't have promise, I wouldn't have summoned you here today. You need something different in your life, something better. Take a deep breath and relax. I won't hurt you, I promise."

"Oh, I understand, Frau Pearson," he blurted like a teenager. "I never thought about it before. Ah, ah, do you have any suggestions?"

She smiled broadly "Of course. Are you writing a new story now?"

"Yeah, got an idea for a new story."

"After you get the scene set, take a few moments to think through where your major characters come from, what their childhoods were like, who they loved, what they feel their strengths and weakness are, how they reacted to successes and failures. Think about what their favorite food and colors are, how they like to spend their days off. You won't use all that, but it will help you make them more real. It will also help with the scenes between the action sequences, which will make the pacing of the story easier to handle."

They talked a little more and finished their drinks. His head was spinning as she showed him out, and they parted without physical contact. It took him an hour after he got to work to focus on what he was supposed to be doing.

He was sitting at the cash register of his Lawrence, Kansas convenience store the next evening, a slow Friday on a muggy night, staring blankly at a pair of shapely butt cheeks around 11:30PM; the dullness of the evening having sedated him. Jessica Smith, his underling, was mopping the floor with her back to him. The mop passed languidly back and forth and her hips shifted in rhythm. Most men would have found the exhibition tantalizing but Chris was not most men. He'd known Jessica all summer; her lousy work ethic and spoiled girl attitude had permanently disconnected her body's effect on his libido.

She rounded a corner and he returned to his inventory. A car went by, and he checked his watch: 11:35PM. In half an hour, he would be free to return home and cross town to his Dungeons and Dragons game at Dave Chapman's house. 

Jessica finished her chore and wheeled the mop bucket in front of the counter. "I think you're gay," she said sharply, a sneer on her face. 

He looked up at her in disdain. "What?" he moaned, his shoulders sagging.

"I think you're gay. Not interested in women. Fudge packer. Gay cabellero. Pansy Ass." Shaking his head, he snorted: "Little you know."

"I'll tell everyone you're gay." She tossed her head, flipping back her shoulder length multi colored mane. "Everyone'll think you suck dick."

He put his pen down crispy and glared at her. "Like you don't know what that's like. For starters, this is a university town. Queers and Allies is a recognized group on campus. The only folks who care who's what are a bunch of rednecks I never spend time with. Secondly, just because I'm not turned on by you doesn't mean I'm not attracted to women. You're such a bitch I couldn't get it up if you were standing butt naked in front of me. So it's no test of my gender preference that I'm not interesting in raping you at this instant."

"We'll see about that. You're a liar, liar, queer pants on fire," she huffed and pushed the mop bucket to the back.

After she faded from sight, a huge man with greasy grey hair, a long sleeved plaid shirt, jeans and flip flops strode in through the door. Chris kept his attention to his work until he noticed a gun in his face. "You'll only get fifty bucks," he said calmly, his heart racing inside.

"I doan b'leve yoo." The face in front of his was red and sweating profusely. His dark eyes were extremely bloodshot and his breath reeked of beer. His grisly salt and pepper beard reached down past his sternum.

"Look at the sign." Chris pointed with his pencil to a sign that said ATTENDANT DOES NOT HAVE ACCESS TO THE DROP SAFE. NO MORE THAN $50 DOLLARS IN THE REGISTER.

He peered at the sign, almost putting down his revolver, but brought it up again immediately. "I wannit. Anda 24 pack o' Bud Light."

"You'll have to wait until my clerk comes back from the back room. She'll be back in a minute." Who knows how long it'll take, he thought to himself, she's probably waxing her landing strip.

The gun jerked in his face. "Gimme th' munny naow," he rasped.

"Okay, okay," Chris agreed, opening the drawer, and pulling out the few bills there.

The gun suddenly wobbled and fell on the counter. "What's going on here?" Jessica asked from the area of the doorway.

Chris snatched the gun and saw his would be robber staring at Jessica with his mouth wide open, unaware he'd been disarmed. Looking over, Chris saw Jessica standing stark naked, staring at the beefy intruder with her mouth open. Her breasts stood at attention, as chestnut brown as the rest of her body, her nipples fully erect. A hint of tummy fat and love handles subtly inflated the lines of her abdomen, and a thin strip of public hair pointed upward from her crotch. A secret button was pressed, and Chris held the gun on the fat man, who slowly raised his hands in surrender without a word. "Jessica, you might want to put your clothes back on before the cops get here," he said with uncommon calmness.

She stood there dumbly for several seconds until the wail of the sirens began to pierce the air before she darted to the back. The man stood there dumbly looking after her until the red light dominated the parking lot, then surrendered meekly to the cops as they entered.

There was paperwork after the man was led out, and data downloaded from the surveillance system. Jessica came back out, fully dressed after they finally left, minutes before the next shift was due. Chris shook his head at her. "Jessica, your timing was impeccable. Thank you."

She shook her head. "You're welcome?"

"Yes. You realize we have security cameras all over the place, and this recording will be evidence for this idiot's trial."

"What does that mean?"

"Your bare ass will be seen in court."

"Oh."

"But I bet it'll be on the Internet by morning. And by the way, I'm going to need to think of my wrinkled old mother in her flannel nightgown and oxygen tank in order to ride my bike home comfortably. Thanks, Jess."

After getting off work, Chris rode his bicycle across town to his buddy Dave Chapman's house to find a note on the kitchen door: NO GAME TONIGHT; MEET ME AT PERKINS. "Shit," he said to no-one, "What the fuck is going on here?" Reluctantly, he got going again for the short trip over the 23rd street.

Dave was sitting in a booth toward the front door, sipping a cup of coffee, with his laptop in front of him. "Great," he said, "You got the note."

Chris slid in across from him, facing the door. "What the hell is going on, Dave? Did everybody have somewhere else to go?"

"No, Chris. I've been thinking since Tuesday night."

"Nice idea. Thinking about anything special, or just thinking at random?"

Dave snorted. "That night playing with Troy. The other guys there were pissed you fried him when you got there. They didn't like him, but thought he shoulda stayed."

"You could have resurrected him."

"Yeah, but I was getting tired of his shit, too. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I've spent years working out these adventures for these guys, hours of detail work invested, and they've done nothing but beat me up. The game's getting complicated, and it's not like the games we used to play. Their attitudes suck."

The waitress came over and gave Chris a menu, bringing out a broad smile for Dave. She was a tall, heavy set girl with dark hair, brown eyes and perfect teeth. Chris took a glance and ordered a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and iced tea. "You want a refill, Dave?" Her voice was high and bright, full of obvious adoration.

"Thanks, I'm fine, babe."

She turned and went to the kitchen, her eyes lingering on Dave momentarily. Chris shook his head and picked up the thread: "I agree, it's not like when we were teenagers. We had fun making up stories as we went along, playing characters, trying to outdo each other. Extemporaneous theater is a better description of what we did."

"I'm tired of it. The guys who're playing now are spoiled brats. Don't give them what they want, and they act like you're slime. Fuck it; I'm done with D and D.."

Dave sipped his coffee and the waitress brought a glass of tea for Chris. She cast googly eyes and a broad smile at Dave as she turned and left. Chris followed her hips, generous and lumpy, and looked at his friend strangely. Dave was smirking to himself.

"I gotta tell you what happened at work tonight." Chris told the story of the attempted robbery and Jessica's naked intervention; Dave fought to keep coffee from coming out his nose. He rocked in the booth and almost fell over: he knew Jessica.

"So how soon do you think it's going to be online?" Dave asked eventually.

"I give it till morning. Frank Schwartz'll have it up by then."

"Schwartzie still working overnight at the station?"

"Comin' up on 8 years."

"Shit, I remember when he was played in the games."

"He was hysterical."

The food arrived, and Chris applied condiments before digging in. The waitress lingered to check Dave's coffee, giving him another broad smile as she poured the dark liquid. Dave nodded in gratitude and pecked at his keyboard. After she wandered away, Chris leaned over and wiggled his eyebrows at the waitress, inquiring. "Anything going on between you two?"

"I don't know what you mean?" Dave said with mock innocence.

"She's got you in her sights, man. You're being targeted. You got your protection from insatiable mating female spell working?"

Dave shook his head. "Tina's a nice girl, I like her. Sure, she's a little chunky, but she's the kindest girl I've ever met, and isn't trying to remake me yet."

" 'Yet' is the operant term. You doing your pushin' on that cushion by now?"

"Shut up. Don't be gross. We went out last night and had a good time; I kissed her good night on the cheek."

"Welcome back to the Seventh Grade."

He closed his laptop and looked to see she was out of earshot. "Look, she's a nice girl who likes me. I haven't run into anyone like that for a while. Yes, it may take a while to figure out what to do. . ."

"I'll loan you a video if you're forgotten."

". . .thank you, nerdface, but my standards have changed."

"More desperate?"

"Look who's talking. No, I'm tired of being in Limbo. I need somebody, and not just because I'm horny. I need somebody to tell how my day went, and somebody to snuggle with."

"She's a good snuggler, I'm sure." She was pouring coffee for a patron on the other side of the restaurant. "Whatever floats your boat, man."

Chris had another difficult night trying to sleep, with vague dreams he couldn't remember on awakening. Once daylight roused him, he booted up his computer and opened his word processor, working feverishly all Saturday, taking breaks to eat and sleep, until it was time to go to work on Sunday. A half hour after he got there, he met a new co-worker, a college student on summer break from Nigeria, tall and graceful, her skin ebony and her hair short. They got acquainted and he spent most of the evening showing her the paces.

Dave wandered in just before closing. "Didja hear about Jessica?" he began.

"No. What?"

"You have been preoccupied all day. Her clips been on the Internet since dawn yesterday. Pretty fuzzy, but you see enough. The look on the stupid robber's face is priceless."

"Did you see me?"

"Fortunately, it's from the wrong angle to see your face."

"Good."

"She come in today?"

"Nope. Got a new worker. Guess Jessica wants to hide for a while."

His friend looked at his watch. "Yeah. You raking leaves for Frau Pearson tomorrow?" Dave gave him a raised eyebrow and a lilt in his voice.

"Nope," he replied, ignoring his friend's instigation. "Working on a new story. Got an idea."

"Great. Wanna see a midnight movie?"

"What's on?"

"Indiana Jones. Tina and I thought you'd like to tag along."

Chris sat up straight and looked Dave in the face. Dave shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish. "No thanks, Dave," Chris said at last. "I really want to work on my story. You know how it is."

"Sure."

The next few days were a blur. Chris spent every spare moment on the new story, drawing out bios of his characters, working out his storylines, shaping the dialogue. Once he finished the first chapter just after work, he reeled off another six in as many days. His hands shook as he sent them to Frau Pearson at 4:00AM on a Saturday morning, and spent most of the weekend pacing like a caged tiger waiting for a response.

Monday morning it was in his inbox when he awakened from a tense night's sleep at 8:00 AM:

Chris,

You're off to an excellent start. Keep up the good work. By the way, does Queen Maat have to wear a solid gold bustier that reveals most of her breasts all the time? It might be all right for ceremonial occasions, but in the field it would be impractical. She definitely wouldn't be able to do all the sword play and acrobatics wearing that kind of thing unless she trained all the time, and running a kingdom would make that difficult. Paperwork takes a little time and effort, to put it mildly. Gold is a very soft metal as well, and wouldn't stop a lot of offensive weaponry. How about putting her in chain mail out on the trail like your hero? She would also blend into her surroundings better as an ordinary warrior, and the opposition is better off not knowing she's royalty.

Anna Pearson

He wanted to turn hand springs and kiss her full on the lips, then he wanted to crawl into a hole. Queen Maat's description was almost identical to Frau Pearson's: tall, solid, strong, voluptuous, dignified with long flowing white hair and an ageless, tanned face. "Why did I do this?" he murmured to himself. Embarrassment made his cheeks blush for his oversight. What is she thinking of him?


Lemonade and White Melons Ch. 02



Yet the next morning he awakened with a redwood in his shorts, and only remembrance of touching her white melons gave him release. After purging his lust, he was able to continue working on his story.

It was Thursday when he sent the final draft to his mentor. He made the changes she asked for, and cut a hot sex scene he'd planned for chapter 8. The new co-worker was a dream to work with after the nightmare of working with Jessica, and he spent a great deal of slow time on the shift thinking about the story and how he wanted to end it. There were enough ideas for a second story with his hero, and he compiled his sketches into a file where he could start the next tale. When he got home Friday, Frau Pearson invited him over to discuss the story.

She wore an unbuttoned, filmy pink blouse over a white tube top, dark slacks and sandals as she greeted him at the front door. She ushered him to her study, where he found two glasses of fresh lemonade on the sideboard. His file was on the computer, and she held a printout of his work.

"Liebling, you've done an excellent job. I'm very proud of what you've done, this is an excellent story, charming, witty, and inventive. Both Hrinling the Bard and Queen Maat are characters I like, and the villain, Lord Procopus, is someone I love to hate. There's only one thing I'd like you to consider before you send it to my Angela."

"What's that?" he said, looking at her eyes and struggling not to look elsewhere.

"The last battle scene, where Hrinling is fighting off the werewolves while Maat is racing to claim the Überring that defeats Procopus. How many werewolves are chasing them?"

"99 of them."

"And an untrained fighter is able to hold them all off?"

"He's in a restricted place."

"Doesn't he get tired?" Chris thought a few moments. "I guess he does. But he's a fighter."

"Does he spend his time in physical training like calisthenics or practicing his musical instruments?" 

"Oh. Well, maybe he has a magic belt that gives him strength?"

"Why doesn't he wear it all the time? He doesn't act like Superman."

"All right, but he needs to hold them off long enough for her to get the ring."

"Why doesn't he shut the door behind them?"

"No door."

Frau Pearson walked back and forth, thinking. Chris watched her closely, wondering what she was up to. She bounced slightly as she walked, and it distracted him. "Does he have a horn?"

"Yes."

"Would a blast from the horn bring a rockslide to close the gap?"

"I guess so. How does she get out?"

"There's a hole in the ceiling you've already got there. Very high up, surrounded by impenetrable mountains. The Überring gives her the power of flight, as you said. All right, let's think this through: Hrinling is fighting the werewolves, the rocks have blocked the door, but if he's not resisting them they'll turn human and move them. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

She sat in front of the computer, and looked at him anxiously. Chris stood up and went to the window, watching the breeze shake the trees. It seemed to take an eternity, but it dawned on him what she wanted.

"You want me to kill off Hrinling?"

"I think it would be better if Hrinling made a last stand at the blocked doorway and giving Maat enough time to get the ring." She put her hand on his and he did not resist. A gust thrashed the greenery, and high wispy clouds processed above. He shook his head. "He would give his life for her, would he not?" her dulcet tones suggested.

"Yes." he said softly.

"His sacrifice would assure their mission, wouldn't it?"

"Yes." The ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs arose to his consciousness. "The part of your story that doesn't really work is after Procopus is destroyed. Yes, a victory parade is nice, but it takes the plot nowhere. She can't marry him because they're from different social classes, and he wants to wander off to new lands. You probably want to do a series with Hrinling, don't you?"

"Yes. Already had some ideas for another tale."

"With Maat?"

"No."

"But he's enough of a hero he would do this, wouldn't he? Give his life for her?"

A long moment came before the answer. "Yes. He would. Without thinking."

Her hand reached up to his shoulder. "It's good you love your characters, Chris. You'll write other stories, with different characters. His death will make your tale compelling. There's a lot of stories where the heros survive in spite of impossible odds. This twist will make your story more human, and that's what fantasy storytelling is about, isn't it? Exploring how to be human in ways an ordinary tale can't?"

He stood there motionless as he thought. "It would make the more sense," he said at last. "Hrinling is a good follower, loyal, and devoted, but he's not a hero. Maat is the main character, I realize that now."

"You're right. You wrote a story about Maat's journey to overcome evil, and Hrinling is the sidekick. And if you want to write more about Hrinling, you put it earlier in his life."

"I can end it just after Procopus dies, when Maat returns to find Hrinling's body broken at the entrance of the cave." A tear crept from his eye down his cheek as his brain surged to spin out a new story thread. "She holds him in her arms for a long, long time, silently without weeping, then uses the last power of the ring to incinerate his corpse."

"How come? Doesn't he deserve a hero's burial?"

"So he doesn't return as a werewolf. Besides, their culture practices public immolation of corpses."

"Right. Why doesn't she cry?"

"The struggle with Procopus has worn her out. She's still in combat mode. When she gets home, she'll weep."

"Makes sense to me."

"Can I fix it here on your computer, Frau Pearson? It's coming now and I don't want to lose it."

"Of course, Schatzi" She got up and allowed him to take her place. A few strokes, and he'd deleted the last chapter, and began rewriting after Maat's triumph. Looking over his shoulder, she laid her hand on him softly, squeezing his shoulder in encouragement. 

Maat floated down, blasting the retreating werewolves from the rockface until all were destroyed. Heaps of steaming flesh surrounded the opening, blocked by an avalanche. She heard Hrinling's horn blowing in the distance as she made the final leg of the journey to the Treasury, and the rumble, wondering what happened to him in passing as she focused on controlling the Überring. 

His body lay on the rubble, cold and white, his lips turning blue. The landslide did not kill him; he'd managed to avoid the falling rocks. A score of shaggy bodies lay rent next to him, his pale skin scored with a multitude of fresh slashes, blood pooled at his feet. The sword in his hand was dripping with ichor and chipped in many places. 

A bird sang and the grey clouds began to break in the East. Maat sat on the rough ground next to Hrinling, cradling him and holding his head in her lap. She took off her helmet and her russet hair became a pennant of defiance. The clouds rolled back, revealing the noonday sun high over the Valley of Desolation. Her hollow eyes blinked in the sunlight, bloodshot and dull, as she looked at the changes coming over the land.

The sun marched to the West and sank redly behind the hills. In the fading light, she laid her companion out with hands crossed on his chest. Taking up his sword and his horn, she walked up the trail to the hilltop, pausing to wring the last magic from the Überring, setting the corpses ablaze, purifying the land. Turning, she started the long journey home, a tear stealing from her left eye, as night fell and the flames of cleansing did their work.

Chris hit the key to save his work and Frau Pearson rubbed his shoulders. The hands felt good on his tense muscles, and he leaned back to savor their touch. "I think this calls for a celebration," she said, and he nodded in response. 

She left the room and he heard her footsteps trotting downstairs. He looked around the room, at the bookshelves, and wondered how many of them had sad endings, his eye catching a German edition of Don Quixote. She returned with a tray holding two glasses and a bottle. "Do you like Schnapps?"

"Don't know. Never tried it."

"I think you'll like it." She poured, and he watched as she sipped the clear liquid. Tasting it himself, he was taken by the crisp, tingling sensation the liqueur made in his mouth, and savored it. They sat and sipped as she looked deep into his eyes as he returned her look. "Why did you leave me that day?" she asked at last.

"I don't know. Scared, I guess. Didn't seem right."

"Because I'm old enough to be your grandmother?"

"Because you were my teacher, and even though it was fifteen years ago, some things don't change. Because I'm getting older and I'm lonely and frustrated. Maybe a bit ashamed. My life hasn't gone like I thought it would. Nowhere near."

"That's true for a lot of us. I never thought I'd leave Germany. Never thought I'd be raising children alone in a strange country. Never thought I'd be teaching a room full of anxious teenagers how to speak my native language."

They sipped their drink until they were gone, and she refilled their glasses. "Today is the start of something new," she said quietly.

"Is it the first day of the rest of my life?"

She shook her head. Raising her hands, she slipped her diaphanous pink blouse from her shoulders, the white tube top barely containing her breasts. The white tops of them peeked out at him, and he willed the horizon lower. Smiling, she pulled it down, bit by bit, until two little brown circles began to appear.

He rolled his office chair closer and took her into his arms. They looked at each other in the eyes for a long moment at close range, then their lips met. There was no slow build up: they devoured each other hungrily as though they'd fasted for days before a feast. His hands pushed her tube top down and caressed the luscious white melons that haunted him since his first encounter with him.

They kissed for what seemed an eternity. Her perfume dominated his senses, the taste of Schnapps was all he knew. He felt her hands fumbling down and spread his legs to give her better access. They broke their kiss and her mouth was at his ear. "Tell me what you want, Schatzi. Anything, anything. I'll do anything for you."

He clasped her hand in his and brought it to her mouth. Taking her index finger, he began to suck on it, licking around the nail and cuticle. She sighed and found his bulge, unzipping his shorts and pulling him out. "I've heard of this, but I've never done it before. My cousin Magda said she did this to keep her virginity from the Russians. What do I need to be careful about?"

"Teeth are dangerous," he whispered in her ear. "Cover them as you do it."

Her other hand went into her mouth, and with a soft plop it was toothless. She bent down and began licking all around before taking him in her toothless mouth. He leaned back and surrendered to the sensations. His hands guided her, and soon she found what she sought from him. A strong, heldentenor blast came from his throat as he ascended the mountain, and the clouds parted from his mind revealing a series of new tomorrows with endless possibilities. 

To be continued 



Lemonade and White Melons Ch. 03



Another August morning in Lawrence, Kansas dawned bright and crimson, the sky turning blue as night gave way to day. Chris Jenkins awakened to hear his mother puttering around above his basement apartment. A glance at the clock told him she was moving around earlier than usual, and concerned, he got out of bed, put on a bathrobe, and went up to the kitchen.

Chris' mother Wilma was puttering around with the coffeemaker, her walker between her and the counter, her oxygen bag hanging by a strap around her shoulder. She was bent, dressed in a blue gown, her grey hair frayed, and her face creased in concentration. He stood watching her, waiting for her to see him, but she was in her own world at half speed. Her hands were shaking now, barely trembling, and her right eye was blinking rapidly.

"Mom, Mom, are you all right?"

She looked around the kitchen before seeing him, and her winkled face creased in a frown. "Who are you, young man, and what are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Mom, I'm your youngest son Chris, I live downstairs."

"Chris, Chris, Chris who?"

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Things are a bit shaky this morning, but I'll be all right in a minute. Virgil will need his breakfast, and I have to get the kids ready for school."

The old body teetered and Chris came over to make sure she didn't fall hard. Somehow she righted herself, and continued her slow progress toward the refrigerator.

"Mom, I'm calling 911."

Her head shaking, she looked at him, and a fragile voice said: "If you want to call one of your friends this early, Timmy, go ahead, but don't talk too long. You have to catch the bus in a few minutes."

Grabbing the cordless phone, Chris dialed for the paramedics, gave the dispatcher the directions, and hung up, waiting for the ambulance. The possibility his mother would need help was the positive reason Chris was still living at home in his 30th year, and he'd rehearsed what they would do many times. His brothers and sisters were aware of the situation and concerned about their mother's frail condition, but agreed she should live at home as long as she could. 

An aroma wafted up and caught his attention. It took him a moment to recognize it, and it frightened him. The night before, a Saturday night, he'd spent with Frau Pearson. She drove them into Kansas City for dinner and an orchestra concert, coming back and ascending the stairs to her bedroom. He lifted his hand to his nose: her aroma was still there, all the way to his wrist, and suddenly he was afraid his mother would notice it and know what it was. The lights in her bedroom were on when he got home around 2:00AM, but that wasn't unusual. He didn't shower because he was afraid of what she might think, since he normally showered on awakening.

A wail of sirens crept into fringes of his hearing. His mother continued to putter around the kitchen, getting cups, bowls and saucers from the cabinets, looking in the refrigerator, then shutting the door absent mindedly to cross the room to the stove. Getting a skillet from underneath the oven, she put it on a burner and fired up the gas, still shaking and wobbling. Chris watched her closely and tried to get her attention, but she ignored him. 

The wailing peaked, and the front doorbell rang. Chris went down the hallway past the cluttered front room to open the door. Sam Hearns, an old classmate of his at Lawrence High, was at the door, his partners stood behind him with a gurney and other equipment. "Somebody here call for an ambulance? Oh, hi Chris."

"Hi Sam. It's my mom."

They came in and he led them back to the kitchen. His mother was barely keeping upright as she bent over to look in a cabinet. The paramedic came up and asked: "Is there anything we can do to help you, Mrs. Jenkins?"

"Oh, you frightened me," she said, almost falling as she tried to stand up. "Did Timmy say you could come over for breakfast?"

He took her arm, and led her to a chair, where he sat her down. "I'd like to check you out a little bit, Mrs. Jenkins."

"All right, Dr. Francis. It's been a while since you made a house call, but it's kind of you to come over."

Sam began to check her out while his team brought everything in. She submitted to his examination meekly. Chris shut off the burners, and watched intently.  

After a few moments, Sam stood up and said, "Mrs. Jenkins, I think we need to take a little ride. How does that sound to you?"

"Well, I don't know, I have to get breakfast ready for my family."

"I'll take care of everything, Mom. You need to go right away," Chris said.

"That's nice of you, young man, but my duty is to my husband and my family."

"Something happened to Dad, I mean, Virgil. They had to take him to the emergency room. He had chest pains"

"Oh, that's different. All right, young man, I'll go with you. I hope my Virgil's all right." The paramedics were able to walk her gently out the door, but halfway down the sidewalk, she collapsed and they had to load her into the gurney for the trip to the hospital. Sam turned to Chris after they loaded her in: "Do you want to ride with us?"

"No, I better make sure everything's all right here before I come in. It'll only take me about five minutes. I'll meet you there."

"Good. You know where to go."

The ambulance pulled away and Chris looked around at the lightening sky. His thoughts raced, and after a moment's pause, he went back in the house to organize things before he followed them.

The faint aroma still haunted him as he sat in the waiting room and called his brothers and sisters. Breakfast was a pack of little chocolate donuts from a vending machine and a can of soda; only a few people were stirring in the Emergency Room that early Sunday morning and the waiting room was nearly empty. After making the calls, he dozed fitfully in the chair as he waited for news.

The duty nurse came out to see him around 8:00AM. "Mr. Jenkins, your mother is doing better. We don't know exactly what happened, but it's something in her brain. She had a slight stroke 3 years ago?"

"Yes. They called it a TIA."

"How long has she been on oxygen?"

"About three years. They discovered the emphysema at that time, although she hadn't been breathing well for a while."

"Is she still smoking?"

"Yes. We've all tried to tell her how dangerous it is, but she won't listen. Been afraid she'd set herself and the house on fire."

"All right. We're sending her up for some tests later today, an MRI and some blood work, to see what we're dealing with. She hasn't been conscious since she came in. Is your family on the way?"

"Yes, my sister Brenda's on her way up from Wichita, and Sheila's on her way from Dodge."

"We'll give you the room number in a few minutes, and you can go home and rest for a while. Don't think she'll get there before 11:00, and she probably won't be conscious until this evening."

"I see. Well, thank you."

"You're welcome, Mr. Jenkins."

Chris watched as the nurse departed, taken aback at being called 'Mr. Jenkins.' She looked like a teenager in her floral scrubs. He left and went home, to be awakened from his nap an hour later.

"Schatzi, Schatzi, are you all right?"

"H'lo?" came the fuzzy reply.

It was Frau Pearson, Anna, as he needed to think of her now. "Did you forget we had a brunch date before I left for Europe today?"

He shook his head. "No, Anna, I had to take Mom to the hospital this morning. Something's wrong with her head, she thought Dad was still alive. My sisters are heading to town."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Schatzi. I understand completely. Do your duty to your family. I will see you when I get back in three weeks."

"Thanks, Anna. Safe journeys. Stay in touch."

"Of course, Schatzi. You're a wonderful man; never forget that."

"Thanks." He hung up, then hit his head with his hand. Should he have offered to come anyway? They wouldn't need him at the hospital, and he wouldn't get to see her for three long weeks. After all, she was his. . .

Burying his head under his pillow, he shook in confusion. He was dating someone at last, after many years alone, but his girlfriend was almost as old as his mother. Well, five years younger, but it was the same ballpark. Although he was head over heels for her, it was something he had to keep secret, even from his buddy Dave, lest he lose every semblance of respect from anyone else, as far as he knew. His head spinning, he entered an unconsciousness that was mercifully devoid of dreams.

The phone rang again around 3:00PM, and it was his sister Brenda announcing her arrival at the hospital. She kindly offered to stay until Sheila's arrival in two hours, and told him to go to work as usual. 

Instead he called his supervisor and got time off immediately. For once, his boss didn't argue about being away: he was excused the next three nights. After a quick shower, he went to meet his sister at the hospital.

Brenda was his next oldest sister, his height and coloring, a little heavier, and freshly sunburned from a day in the sun. Sheila was next to the oldest: short, bleach blond, a vision of her mother as a young woman. They got to see their mother around 5:00; after awakening her from sleep they found she could say coherent words, but her sentences made no sense.

The next morning, their other three brothers arrived: Virgil, Fred and Terry. Timmy was the brother they lost in childhood: he died in a swimming accident just before Chris was born. Their mother's fixation on Timmy worried them, and the bits starting to trickle in from the reports worried them more. Over the next few days, the family spoke in groups of two, three and four in the waiting room, in the hotel rooms they booked, in the restaurants and the hospital dining room. Their mother's physical condition stabilized, but her mind stayed away.

Virgil took Chris outside Thursday morning for a short walk. The two brothers sat on an outside bench and watched the employees arrive for their 9:00AM shifts as Virgil burned through cigarette after cigarette.

"Chris, we've got to face facts," Virgil started. "No matter what happens, Mom isn't coming back home." Chris nodded. "We think we can get her into a nursing home in Wichita near Brenda." He nodded again. "You've done a good job looking after her here, and we appreciate it. It's time we let you live your life. It's time somebody else takes over looking after Mom. Bren's not working right now, and her kids are in school all day. She wants to do it."

"That's fine," Chris said in a small voice. "I knew something like this would happen someday, Virgil. Just never thought it would come this soon."

Virgil put his hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezed. "Fred and Terry and I are going to clean the place up a bit soon. We'll need to have everything ready to go before long."

"Huh?"

"We might as well split things up between us, get the house cleaned out. Do you have a problem with us putting the house on the market?"

Chris shook his head. "I guess not. I don't want to stay there without Mom."

"Don't worry, Chris. It'll take a long time to sell, probably, and you'll have plenty of time to find another place to live. Do'ya need help with that?"

"Nope. I got friends."

Virgil nodded his head. He was the image of his father, taller and heavier, his black hair sprinkled with grey, and always looked after Chris until he left home. Occasionally, he took Chris on fishing trips, and let him stay at his house for days at a time. "I know things are going to go fast the next few days. We'll take our time divvying things up, and set up a garage sale for anything we don't want. The Jenkins family will stand tall together, right?"

"Right, Virgil." He remembered his Dad telling them to stand tall whenever things looked bad. "You ok?"

"I guess."

It took the six Jenkins siblings four days to organize their mother's house, marking items each wanted, and setting aside items for a garage sale. One of them kept track of their mother's progress: on Monday she would be ready to travel, and the nursing home in Wichita was ready for her.  A realtor was contacted and a 'For Sale' sign appeared in the front yard. Chris had to duck out to take his shifts at the Convenience Store Thursday and Friday, and he put his yard work business on hold. Frau Pearson stayed in touch, telling him about her travels and giving him moral support.

After seeing his mother off to Wichita on a Monday morning, he gathered his equipment and went over to the Pearson house to clip the yard and hedges. The activity gave him something to focus on, take his mind off what was happening, and gave him a chance to be in Anna's presence. 

The house seemed strange, occupied. He knew Frau Pearson was in Germany, and wondered who was there. As he did the back yard hedges, he saw a dark head of hair bobbing around atop a pink bikini top, a phone to her ear. He was finishing up when the back door opened.

"Hi, are you Chris?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Anjie Pearson, Anna's granddaughter. Mutti told me you might be over this morning, and I wanted to say hi."

"Hi." The woman before him was Anna's height, with long dark hair and blue eyes, wearing thick, black rimmed glasses, a pink bikini top and short white shorts. Her hips were a little wide, her stomach a little flabby, and her long legs strong, her bare feet displayed red painted toenails the same shade her grandmother wore just before leaving for Europe. The acres of skin was white; she hadn't spent much time outside lately.

"D'ya want some lemonade?" she asked with a smile.

Chris was suddenly aware his meaty torso was bare, his t-shirt hanging by his belt, and his shorts were inadequate to conceal a budding erection.  "Well, y-y-yes," he stammered.

"Great. C'mon in." She turned to re-enter, revealing a large, well sculpted backside. He put on his t-shirt and followed her carefully.

Two frosty glasses awaited them on the table, and he sat down quickly at the nearest chair. "When did you get into town?" he asked.

"Last night. I usually come out this time of year, my favorite time in Lawrence at the beginning of a new academic year."

"Yeah, it's starting to get busy. The store's been swamped."

"Did Mutti tell you much about me?"

He struggled to think about how he knew about her. Frau Pearson mentioned her often before going to Europe, but how? Then it came to him: "You're a book publisher."

"Excellent."

"You're my publisher. I signed a contract with your company."

"Sharp man. We're going to sell a lot of copies of Journey through the Valley of Evil. One of the best Fantasy books I've read for a while."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

She gave him a quizzical look, her eyes looking at him closely. "Do you remember me from High School?"

He thought for a while. "No, I don't think so."

"You were two grades ahead of me, and Lawrence High is a big place.  We weren't in any activities together, but I remember you. You were in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead."

"Yes, that's right. Gosh, that's been a long time ago. Were you one of the stagehands?" She nodded with a big smile on her face. "Wow. Wow. I remember now. You always wore a ponytail and a KU sweatshirt." She nodded, smiling broadly. "How come you're back home?  Do your parents still live here?"

She looked down for a minute. "I lost my folks in an accident when I was in junior high. Spent my teens with Mutti here in Lawrence."

"I'm sorry, Anjie. I didn't know."

She continued unfazed. "It was a long time ago. Went to the University, English Major, got a job at a publisher in New York, did well. Got a couple of hot tips and invested my money smartly, made enough to buy the company. Been making money for the past three years."

"Garrison Keillor would be proud of you."

"I usually visit Mutti in the summertime, and when she told me she was visiting family in Germany, I asked if I could house sit. I love Lawrence in August, when school's starting and all things are possible."

"That's one way of looking at it. I see it as the return of awful traffic and bunches of barbarians invading town."

She giggled. "Of course, that too. How's your Mom doing?"

"She moved to Wichita today. Going to live in a nursing home, Brenda's going to look in on her. It's going to be empty around the house."

"I can imagine."

"Anyway, I thought I'd catch up on the yardwork for your grandmother before I go to work later today. Have to do my shift at the convenience store."

"Do you get a day off soon?"

"Wednesday."

"Let's bum around town Wednesday. I'd love to see all the old haunts on campus, and it's more fun with company. What do you say?"

He looked at her for a moment. Her eyes were bright and inviting, and the cool air of the kitchen made her nipples perk within her top. "All right. Meet you when?"

"9:00AM right here. Bring your bicycle."

"How did you know. . ."

"Figure it out. I've got some things to do online. Later." She bounded up the stairs, jiggling nicely, leaving him to finish his drink and wonder what just happened.

When he got home, there was an e-mail in his inbox:

Chris,

Having a wonderful time, and I sincerely wish you were here. Spent a lovely day with cousin Magda touring where we grew up and crossed into the Czech Republic for a while. Tomorrow we're going hiking in the Schwartzwald, and end up at cousin Heinrich's bistro for supper. I found a lovely beer stein for you.

I hope everything will work out well for your Mother in Wichita. It will be quite a time of adjustment for you, I know, and you're probably quite concerned about moving for the first time of your life.Don't worry, if you can't find anyplace suitable you can stay with me for a while. Have you met my Angela yet? I told her to look for you. If you have some time, please keep her company, she works far too hard and needs to have some fun.

I miss you, Schatzi, I miss your gentle touch. Take care of yourself in these hard days.

Love, Anna

Work that night was rather quiet after the dinner rush. Dave Chapman strolled in around 8:30 with his girlfriend Tina on his arm. "Hey, Chris, got a minute?"

"Sure Dave. Hi Tina." Tina returned his greeting.

"We have announcement to make." Tina held out her left hand, and Chris discovered a small diamond ring on her third finger.

"Congratulations, guys. I'm happy for you. Wow, Dave, this is pretty impulsive for you. Get tired of your freedom?"

"Oh Christopher, my old friend, how little do you understand about life? Tina's the perfect girl for me: she even plays D & D. Gotta snap her up while I can."

"A match made in heaven. When's the happy day?"

"New Year's Eve," Tina cut in. "We're going to start the New Year together, and we'd like you to be our Best Man."

"I'm touched. I'd say you two are, too, but that's beside the point. Of course, Dave, I'd be honored. We go way back."

"Excellent." Dave looked around, finding Chris' new associate Frieda arranging shelves in the cooler. "Where the bitch Jessica?"

"Quit last week while I was gone. The Internet pics humiliated her; she said everybody who came in last Monday night asked when she was getting naked. I don't know what she's doing and I don't care. I didn't even look at the clip."

"Just as well, you've got enough headaches right now. How's things with your Mom?"

"Went to Wichita today."

"You have to move out of the house anytime soon?"

"Nope. Brother Virgil said I could take my time, and they'd help me if I need it. Don't think the house will sell soon; it needs some work." "If you need a place to crash for a while, bud. . ."

"Thanks." 

Tina looked at her watch and gave Dave a nudge. "We gotta go, dude. Gotta. . .gotta. . .gotta . . .work on our stamp collection." Dave gave him a big wink.




Lemonade and White Melons Ch. 03



Chris rolled his eyes. "Be careful, kids. You don't want a reason to push up the big date."

"Thanks, Chris."

"Bye."

Frau Pearson had been writing Chris every day, and Tuesday's e-mail showed her in a traditional Bavarian dress, with corset, skirt and cleavage baring blouse. It was tough for him to keep his concentration through that evening's shift, and his co-worker wondered why he stayed behind the counter so much.

Wednesday dawned clear and bright, and Chris was prompt meeting Anjie at her house, wearing a red golf hat, plain white t-shirt, long blue shorts and sneakers. She emerged wearing a KU baseball hat, a blue halter top, white shorts and sandals. Chris almost couldn't get pedaling again as they departed. 

They rode their bicycles up to campus where they toured Jayhawk Boulevard on foot. She brought her digital camera, and they posed singly by the statue in front of Strong Hall, Anjie poking her finger up its nose. Chris told her his friends always referred to it as the Pterodactyl, and she laughed at it. They sat at Wescoe beach across the street and people watched for a while, then cycled across Crescent and out past the dormitories to West Campus. Coming back, they had lunch in the Union, visited the Bookstore where she purchased a dictionary of obscenity in eight languages, and ended up downtown at a local bar.

Anjie wanted to play Eight-ball, and fortified with a pitcher of frosty refreshment, changed several bills into quarters. The afternoon went aimlessly, both of them were lousy shots and laughed at every easy shot blown and every slop shot made. They talked about everything as the beer flowed: music, High School, New York, fantasy tales, writing, and history. When possible, Chris enjoyed the side view of Anjie's breasts as she leaned over the table, getting a perky brown wink occasionally that made his shorts uncomfortable, and spoiling his already uncertain aim.

They decided to visit Potter's Lake on campus around 7:00PM, and after grabbing a couple of cheeseburgers, rode up past the Campanile to find a spot to watch the waning of the day.

"Do you come up here often?" she asked as they settled on the shore looking east over the lake toward the lone spire of the singing tower.

"Nope." "How come? It's a lovely spot."

"It's also been the gay cruising ground for a long time. Or at least, over on the hill by the Campanile.

"Oh. That's okay, Chris, you're safe with me. I'll protect you."

"Thanks." He laid back on the grass to watch the fading shadows; she lay beside him with her head on his shoulder. For a while, the universe was a lovely place as the wind stirred the trees and the frogs croaked their coarse melodies. After a while, the tower began to sing, with the chimes of the campanile making their mystic reverberations on the hillside.

Just after sunset, they rode back to her house, and she gave him a quick kiss on the lips goodnight. He returned home just before dark, his head spinning and his loins unsatisfied. An e-mail awaited him.

Chris,

We went to a lovely Lake today and spent the whole day on the beach. The water was chill and refreshing, the temperature perfect. Madga and I got some sun, as you can see.

I'm glad you're spending the day with Angela, I hope you had a good time. Of all my grandchildren, she is most special to me. Did she talk to you about reworking some of your other stories?

Tomorrow we go back to München, which I'm looking forward to and dreading.

Love, Anna

The attached pictures were views of a lovely lake, ending with a full body shot of Anna and another shorter, plumper woman lounging on a beach towel stark naked. He was just intoxicated enough that it didn't keep him from going to sleep.

The next morning, he went over to Anna's house to water her flowers, and found Anjie washing windows in a white tube top and black shorts. "Good morning, Chris," she said with a broad smile.

"Good morning, Anjie. How's it goin'?"

"Figured it'd be a good day to do this. These windows are streaked on the outside, and I'm tired of looking at them."

"Fair enough." He collected the hose, and working from the back, systematically sprayed the greenery from the back to front yards.

As he came by the front porch, a mass of soapy water hit his head, accompanied by a giggle. Clearing his eyes, he saw her standing over him, sponge in hand, flinging another sopping piece of suds at him.

He turned his hose upward, moving his thumb over to adjust the spray, soaking her completely as she laughed. She dodged back and forth, turning around trying to get another shot at him, and he followed her back and forth, soaking her ass. He relented and she hit him over the head with the sponge.

After another dousing from the hose he looked at her: her hair plastered back, her clothes soaked, her mouth open in laughter, her body shaking with hysteria. He ducked another swing with the sponge, grabbing her arm and for a moment they stayed there, motionless. Their eyes met and caught each other's, the hose was dropped and her pulled her over to kiss her hard on the lips. She was initially surprised, but responded passionately, wrapping her arms around him, crawling over the rail and wrapping her legs around his waist. 

The cold ache in his feet told him the hose was still on, and he put her down to shut it off. Then, he picked her up and carried her into the house, bounding up the stairs to her bedroom, and landing both of them on the bed, where they resumed their passionate embrace. The few wet clothes were cast off; hands and mouths went everywhere. 

She pushed him off and spread her legs in invitation. He was hesitant, uncertain to go any farther, but her hand pulled him into position while her eyes pleaded. Slowly, he insinuated himself into her being, finding a warm welcome and an echo of his euphoria. As they began their dance of life together, every concern and worry fled from his mind, yesterday and tomorrow melted away into the sweet, soft exhilaration of now.

To be continued 



Lemonade and White Melons Ch. 04



Chris Jenkins was at the counter of his Lawrence, Kansas convenience store around 12:30AM. He was pulling a double shift to make up for the time he took off during his mother's recent illness. It was a day to remember, spent in all consuming ecstacy with Anjie Pearson, who he'd just met three days before. The figures on the page before him struggled to hold his attention, and the bustling of his co-worker, a young man from the University, was on the edge of his perception.

His radio was playing "Take It Easy" by the Eagles, and Chris could relate. Much to his shame, he had fallen hard for his old German teacher, Anna Pearson, gone much farther with her than he was comfortable with, and now he was involved with her granddaughter. In a couple weeks, Anna would be back, and Chris was not sure if he could handle the situation.

Jessica Smith strode into the store, followed by a couple of squirrely looking guys with bags of equipment. She was wearing a pink tube top and cutoffs above her sandals; her body was a gift from God; her face supposedly a gift from her father's bulldog; her attitude a gift from the depths of the Pit. She came to the counter and rested on her elbows, smiling sweetly. "Hey, faggot boy, how's it hanging?"

"Hi, Jessica. Miss you horribly–not!"

"Got a deal for you."

"Not interested."

"Shut up and listen. My boys want to do a photo series here, where I became famous."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, where we foiled the robbery a few weeks ago?"

Chris shook his head. "I don't understand. You mean that security tape where you paraded naked in front of that drunk would-be robber and freaked him out so much he got arrested?"

"Yeah."

"What do you mean 'photo series'?"

She put her hands on her hips and snorted. "I started a new website: 'Jessica Justice', and I go around doing scenes where I fight crime."

"Oh. It's a pay site?"

"Yeah, but it's got really great stuff in it."

"What?"

"Me, naked. A couple of guys sent me a lot of money to do a site where I could fight crime and show off my excellent body."

'I got a great idea for your shoot here."

"Really?"

"Yeah, put a bag over your head."

Jessica stuck out her tongue at him. "Anyway, the boys here will give you $50 if you'll let us take a few shots here."

"No deal."

"All right, $200."

"Done. But what about my co-worker?"

"Who?"

"The guy who does your old job."

"$50?"

"The same as me."

"The same as you? You packing his fudge?"

"No."

"All right. But he's the lookout; we don't want anybody seeing my bod without paying for it."

"Done."

He called his co-worker, Frank, over and told him what the deal was. He accepted the assignment without hesitation, and went outside to divert traffic from the store. Jessica went over by the hot dog rotisserie to plan her poses while Chris went back to his inventory.

Chris looked up from time to time during the hour to see what they were doing. Jessica was showing strategic parts of her anatomy in various places of the store, while one guy held the light and the other shot a flash drive full of pictures. They wanted pictures of Chris playing the robber while a naked Jessica disarmed him: for another $150 he agreed to put a bag over his face and hold an extremely fake gun pointed in her direction.

They were taking pictures back toward the cooler, when he noticed Jessica was naked inside, pressed almost full body against the glass and she left an imprint as she pulled away. "Hey, be sure and clean that up before you go," he ordered.

He got home around dawn, and was awakened at 8:00AM. Going upstairs, he found his brothers Virgil and Fred, demolishing the old plaster from the living room walls. Seeing them at work, he waved and went downstairs, showering and dressing in sweats before going to Anna's house. 

Anjie met him at the door with a warm, muzzy smile wearing a white silk blouse, jeans and fuzzy house slippers. She gave him a long kiss and asked: "What brings you over here at this time of day, punkin?"

"Hey, babe," Chris started. "My brothers are tearing up the house. Could I grab a nap here before I have to go to work later?"

"Sure, sweetheart," she replied. "You can take the master bedroom. I've got a teleconference in five minutes."

"Sweet." Chris found the bed unmade, and crawled in to her residual warmth, falling asleep almost immediately. His dreams were the same as when he discovered his lust for Frau Pearson: he was writing German declensions in chalk on a blackboard while Anna sat topless, saying "Was has du jetzt gelernt" over and over again. 

At 1:00, he was awakened by a soft hand stroking his stomach and a warm body pressed against him. A tongue nuzzled his ear. He rolled over to be suffocated by a hungry mouth, and reached out to find her soft puppy fat eager for his touch. The sweats disappeared; two bodies began a dialogue in the soft glow of the early afternoon on an old fashioned four poster bed surrounded by antique furniture and lace curtains.

They turned, and as he savored the salty sweetness of her dark flecked valley, soft lips and a velvet tongue sought for his solid passion. His fingers clenched her bottom hard and her nails dug into his hips. Before they reached the summit of their longing, he withdrew, arranged her on her back, and mounted her, starting thrusting slowly, while she wrapped her legs around his midsection. The grandfather clock downstairs maintained its sentinel measure of time, but it was unheard as two lovers lost themselves in one another.

Streaked with sweat, they lay in each other's arms, resting after their dialogue, exhausted by their journey through clouds and rain. "Chris, what's your work schedule like the next couple of days?"

"I've got to do another double shift tonight, then single shifts the next three days."

She frowned . "I've got to go back to New York tonight. Need to spend a couple days in the office." Her finger started tracing his arm and she looked down. "Was hoping you could come with me."

He kissed her. "I'd like to, but I can't. Gotta work for a living, babe. Need to do some yard work from your Grandmother. Keep an eye on Virgil and Freddie, make sure they don't kill themselves tearing apart the house."

Her eyes bore on his. "You're a writer now, Chris. You need to think about life beyond the convenience store and yardwork. You need to think of a new place to live, space to write your stories, space to write books. Space for people who care about you."

He started to speak, but she put a single finger on his lips. "You say your house is being torn up by your brothers. It'll take them a while to finish what they're doing, won't it? It'll be noisy and dirty and nasty, won't it?" He nodded. "Bring your clothes and your laptop over here for a few days. Take the stories you put on the Internet and rewrite them, fill them out a bit and make the characters people we'd like to know. Or elves or dwarves or whatever. I'll draw up another contract in New York and you'll be able to quit the store and wind down your lawn business." He frowned and thought; she kissed his forehead. "Chris, I'm not asking you to make the great leap now. Just try out a new lifestyle for a few days and see how you like it. You can take the back guest room: it's away from the street and it's the quietest room in the house."

"What–what–what will your grandmother say?"

"Mutti won't mind; I asked her about it this morning." Chris' jaw dropped. "So it's settled. Get your stuff together and move in–for a few days."

She traced the line of his jaw with her index finger while he thought about it, and eventually he nodded in agreement. "Good," she said, sitting up quickly enough to make her breasts wobble. Reaching her hand over, she stroked him and smiled. Her fuzzy black hair was tousled and a few strands escaped the pony tail she wore that day. "We have time to celebrate before we have to go." As his manhood reasserted itself, she bent down to kiss it again, her soft tongue questing every curve until it was fully restored, then she sat on it, welcoming into her velvet vise and rocking gently on him.

During a slow part of his shift, he put his laptop on the counter and checked his e-mail for the first time that day. He'd barely had time to shower, gather a few things, and make it on time for work. His co-worker Frieda gave his a quizzical look and a smile, shaking her head, but said nothing. There was a message from Germany:

Chris,

We've had such a good time in the Schwartzwald! It's been a long time, but I think I'm

finally back in shape; Magda has been wearing me out. Yesterday we took a lovely boat trip on the Rhine. Tomorrow we're making a long trip to spend a week with my father's relatives near Dresden, and visit some old villages just over the border in Poland where our ancestors lived.

I'm glad you're having such a good time with Angela. It takes a great burden off my

mind. Please stay at my house while your brothers remodel; you need some quiet space. Have as much fun as possible, and I'll treat you both to something nice when I get back.

Love, Anna

There were pictures attached, and a second e-mail with more. Most of them were forest shots of stately trees and a few of a boat trip on the Rhine. The last ones were of Anna naked: several where she was sitting in the middle of a small waterfall, and in the last one she was peeking from behind a small tree, her breasts resting on a pair of strategic branches, a silly smile on her face. Chris shook his head as he closed the window; he was seeing a side of her he'd never seen before. I didn't fit with the storm trooper of the old days.

The old house was silent as he returned, lugging his bags through the front door, and he spent several moments looking around the living room after he put his things away upstairs. Anna was all around him: in the furniture still in the same place they shared lemonade and she offered him her white melons not that long ago, in the pictures of her family all around, in the books of indeterminate age resting on worn shelves, in the degrees hanging on the walls he hadn't noticed before.

Before he went to bed, he opened his laptop and looked at her pictures still attached to the e-mails: taking a flash drive, he downloaded them for later scrutiny. A storm blew in from the Plains in the wee hours, and his thoughts flickered back and forth between the women in his life.

The next three days were a blur: wakening in the early light, a quick breakfast at his home where he checked in with his brothers, a morning at his laptop immersed in old stories, a late afternoon and evening behind the counter. Angela sent him updates of her meetings in New York and asked him when he was quitting the convenience store. Anna sent him more pictures of her travels in Germany, which always included a picture of her naked or preparing to enthusiastically devour huge sausage swathed in mustard.

He dared not quit his jobs. The tension in his relationships with the two women was making him nervous, a tension only banished when he was lost in a story. His fear was he would lose both of them, and life would be back to its normal solitude. Chris firmly believed in the old Wing Walker's Maxim: don't let go of something until you have hold of something else.

Saturday morning found him awakening later than usual with a stranger at his computer. Angela was sitting at his laptop reading one of his text files. She sat with her knees drawn up toward her chest; which gave him an excellent side view of her breast as her white halter top hung loosely. For a moment, his mind spun, thinking she would be reading his e-mail, but it became clear she was reviewing a story.

"Good morning, sunshine," she said calmly, not looking up from the screen. "Busy the past few days?"

"Yeah. Got a lot of things written. You?"

"It was insane. Had to let go of a couple of vice presidents and a couple of editors. I never like this part of the job, but they were leaking data to the competition. Gotta go back at the end of next week to hire replacements."

"When didya get in?"

"Fifteen minutes ago. You were dead to the world, so I thought I'd see what you were up to. This is good stuff: I knew you were a quality writer."

"Thanks." He sat up heavily and rubbed his eyes. "Fancy some breakfast?"

"Great idea. I gotta run by Watson Library to check up a couple things. Mind tagging along?" He shook his head, and she looked at her watch. "Sounds like a plan. Let's go."

They rode their bicycles downtown and had croissants and coffee at a little place on Massachusetts street, taking their time and people watching as they nibbled their food and read the newspaper. By the time they reached campus, it was just past noon and Watson had barely opened its doors. Anjie led them up to the Eastern European reference area and checked some catalogs in Polish before heading into the stacks.

Arriving at their goal at the end of a long stack, she reached down to pull an old book off the shelf, flipping the pages. Chris looked around at the incomprehensible titles before looking over her shoulder. "How many languages do you speak?" he murmured in her ear.

"Eight," she whispered back. "Spanish, French, German, Italian, Greek, Czech, and Polish."

"That's seven."

"Oh, and English," she giggled. "You?"

"I survived your grandmother's German class, and that's about it. Unless you count Redneck as another language."

She wiggled her backside against his groin. "There's another language I think you do quite well."

He responded by circling her waist, hugging back to him. The response below his belt was immediate, and probed her bottom urgently. It wiggled against him more and he lifted his hands to cup her halter. A sigh and a gasp; his tongue emerged to trace her earlobe. She put the book down on top of the others, open, and put her hands on the stack to steady herself. All was quiet around them; they were alone in the entire wing of the library.

She reached around to undo his fly, and he undid hers to slip her shorts and panties down. Bending over at the waist, she reached between her legs to find him and guide him to the moist canyon that longed for his touch. His hands moved fabric aside, and his fingers stroked her bare nipples as they moved together. She turned her head and his tongue returned to the delicately scalloped lobe. It wasn't long before she gasped and shuddered, and together they reached their goal of jubilation.

"God, I've missed you," she murmured when she could talk again.

The spent the rest of the daylight at Clinton Lake, walking hand in hand on the shore, sheltering in the shade of the trees, drinking in one of the last days of summer. There were more beautiful people there, University students in prime shape displaying their tanned and toned physiques, and some anglers testing their prowess. They didn't care, the world was theirs. They dined simply at a small restaurant downtown, and went home to share a bed.

Sunday found them working separately: she hunched over the computer in her grandmother's study, and he tending the yard. When he went back to his room, he checked his e-mail: Anna was due to begin her trip home early Monday. There was a note from her:

Chris,

I've had such a wonderful time here, and yet I long to come back to the two people who

mean the most to me. You have no idea how much I wanted to share everything here

with you, to have you see everything I've seen the past three weeks. That day may come

yet.

Angela is very grateful for your company, and hopes you will stay with us for a while, as

do I. Your life is changing for the better, and though it's a scary proposition, please

believe me when I tell you everything will be all right. I love you and your happiness

means a great deal to me. I can't wait to hold you in my arms again.

See you soon. Love, Anna

He stayed in his room, surfing the Internet absent mindedly until it was time to go to work. When it was time to leave, Anjie was obviously in another conference online, so he left quietly.

It was a slow night at the convenience store, and Chris nodded off just before 11:00PM, while sitting upright on the stool behind the counter. The dream came back to him: he was at the blackboard writing German declensions, this time he wore a white shirt and the room was empty. A single rose sat on Frau Pearson's desk, and the clock on the wall read 4:37. Anna was wearing a simple black dress, but instead of talking she came forward silently and embraced him hard. He felt the hot sweat of her skin, the muscles of her arms, the smell of her perfume, and her breathing in his ear. Over her shoulder he read a line on the board in his own handwriting: Bleiben sie mit Angela, bitte. Es ist, was ich will. Es ist Ihre Zukunft. It seemed Anna wanted to say something, but couldn't, and she was reluctant to let goof him.

The phone rang, and he awoke with a start. Chris picked it up: it was Angela. "Come home now," she said, weeping.

"What? I'm off in another hour."

"Come home now. Please, Christopher. If you never do anything else for me, come home now."

"As soon as I can." Fortunately, his midnight relief was able to come in early and he was on his way in five minutes. He found Angela in the living room, lit only from the light coming through the kitchen door, sipping from a glass with the Schnapps bottle on the table before her. "Anjie? Anjie? What's up?"

"Mutti," she said and began to cry.

"Yes? Is everything all right?"

She shook her head no violently. "They were on the way to the airport, got caught in a crash on the autobahn. Magda was driving, something happened. Flipped a couple of times and hit a truck."

Chris stood waiting. Anjie took another sip and wept some more. "Those crashes on the autobahn are horrible. Mutti told me she was always afraid of the roads there. Almost never survivors, they drive so fast. They drive so fast." The last sentence came out in a whimper. Another sip, an intake of breath. "It was around 4:30 in the morning. Nobody on the road."

"Did her cousin have a heart attack? Stroke? Seizure?"

A nod and a shrug of the shoulders. "Probably. She's gone!" She started wailing and gestured him to come sit by her; when he sat she wrapped herself around him and sobbed heavily into his shoulder. Tears started welling in his eyes and fell on the back of her neck.

For a quarter hour, they held each other and wept. She poured a glass of Schnapps for him, and they drank in silence. The phone rang and she shook her head, so he answered it. After listening to the report, he thanked the other party and hung up. She looked at him quizzically, and he said: "They think cousin Magda had a stroke. Her daughter said Magda was complaining of headaches a month ago, but didn't get it checked out."

Anjie nodded. "You wanna be alone?" he asked.

She shook her head briskly. "Absolutely not, Schatzi. I need you."

"Okay." He sat down and she sat on his lap, her head on his shoulder, and they sat in silence long into the night.

They saw the dawn through the living room windows, the lace curtains turning from red to pink to yellow. Chris tried to puzzle through the writing in his dream without a dictionary and without asking Anjie. Bitte was please, and Bleiben was the verb 'to stay'. So the first sentence was about staying with Anjie. Zukunft stumped him: he couldn't remember for the life of him what it meant.

"Mutti was my mother more than my mother was," she started out of the blue. "I spent every summer with her since I could remember, my folks both worked, and they died in a highway accident when I was in grade school. I was here when I heard the news. Now I hardly remember what they looked like, or how their voices sounded. I understand their drive now, their passion to succeed, but life's about more than success. It's like the Ghost of Marley said: 'People were my business.' I just started to realize that, and now it's too late." 




Lemonade and White Melons Ch. 04



A fresh bout of sobbing with her face buried in his shoulder wracked her for a minute before she could continue. "I was going to move out here and telecommute. I was going to do it after Christmas, but let myself get sidetracked. I was going back to New York after a couple weeks here and stall a little longer. Look where it's gotten me, look where it's gotten me!"

He held her and kissed her forehead. "There's lots of things I shoulda done differently. I should never have dropped out of college–twice. I've let myself get stuck, my life on eternal hold, and justified it by saying I needed to take care of Mom. Hell, all I did was hang out downstairs and hope she didn't set the house on fire. I'm useless. Fucking useless."

She looked into his eyes. "No, you're not. Don't ever say that. Mutti thought you were special, you made her so happy letting her help you with your writing, I've never seen her like this. You're special: I knew it the first time I set eyes on you. You're not useless, you're my future. I have a feeling sometimes: glimpses of the future. I'm going to move here today, and I'm going to be yours."

They went to the kitchen and Chris fixed a simple breakfast. They picked at their food, taking half an hour to finish. Another call, and more details: the two women were dead instantly on contact; a stroke the best likelihood. Time of death was around 4:35AM local time.

Anjie laid down on the couch and closed her eyes; Chris took the opportunity to run upstairs and check his e-mail. There was no last message after Anna's e-mail the day before: he created a new folder and put all her correspondence with him into it. He flipped through the pictures she sent him: the nature shots, the scenes of places she grew up, the crazy shots where she teased him. About to shut his computer down, he pulled up a translation site and looked up the word Zukunft. 

After he closed the computer down, he checked her to see if she would be all right for a while without him. She was fast asleep, so he left her and went to the convenience store he'd worked for 13 years. It was the first day of his vacation, so giving two week's notice meant he was free immediately. The manager was puzzled, but started the separation paperwork without comment.

Next, we went over to the house he had lived his entire life. It was a three bedroom house: he shared a room with his three brothers from the day he returned from the hospital, his sisters shared a room and his parents had the master bedroom. When he was growing up, it seemed so huge, now it seemed tiny. Virgil and Fred were cutting drywall in the front yard.

"Hi Virgil, hi Freddie."

They returned his greetings. Virgil scratched his head: "How's it going, bro? Haven't seen much of you lately. New girlfriend?"

"Gotta be," Fred chimed in. "I can tell by the look on his face. Yup, he's getting laid."

Chris shook his head. "Just wanted to tell you I made a decision."

"Great," Virgil said, "What?"

"I'm moving out. Found a new place, gonna live across town."

"Where?"

"Old west Lawrence."

"Need some help?"

"Not right now. We can do it when you guys are done with the upstairs."

"Good. Are you all right, Chris? You look awful."

"It'll pass. Lost a good friend today."

"Oh."

Chris gathered a few more things from his dresser and closet, taking them out back to his truck. Some boxes were filled with his favorite books, others with mementos going back to high school. The posters on the wall from science fiction conventions and movies stayed where they were. The boxes were piled into the back of his truck; his bicycle went there as well and shortly he was driving across town.

Anjie was still asleep on a couch downstairs when he came in the back door, so he took his things upstairs and put them in the guest room he was inhabiting. He spent a long time looking at the hedges in the back yard, listening to his heart shift. There were echos as she ascended the stairs; he went to meet her in the hallway.

"I've made a decision," he said simply.

"Yes."

"I'll stay."

She smiled. "Knew you would. I saw Mutti in a dream I had just before I woke up."

"Oh? What it like?"

"She told me something. Something you already know." She gave him a kiss full on the lips that lasted a very long time; she released reluctantly. "I've got a request for you."

"Yes."

"From now on, call me Ahn-ge-la."

"All right." He gave her a deep kiss. "Ahn-ge-la."

"The family's starting to come in tomorrow: aunts and uncles and cousins. Some will be here in a few hours, definitely in the morning. You'll need to take your stuff out of the back bedroom."

"Sure. Where should I put it?"

She kissed him and looked at him as if he were stupid. "Do you have to ask?"

He got it after another moment's reflection. "No."

"Good. I'll help."

"After that, let's take a walk."

"Where?"

"Somewhere."

"Sounds good."

So they took a long walk down Massachusetts street after they moved his stuff from room to room, spending a couple hours at an antique bookstore. It was sunset before they started home: after having dinner at a brewpub, they got home and rearranged things in different rooms in preparation for company, then went to a local grocery store to resupply the pantry.

Their labors for the day ended, they repaired to the master bedroom. After taking a long shower together, they got into the four poster bed and slept in each other's arms, as they would do every night for the rest of their lives.