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Pages of a Day Ch. 01

By: NassauHall



[Prologue: Sandra and Marshall first meet at a bookstore, where they had blind dates with other people. In the middle of a lightning storm, their dates, Randall and Jessica, sense each other, drifting among the aisles, dressed to impress. And impress they do – each other. The attraction is obvious, even as Sandra and Marshall struggle to keep their attention. Randall finally takes the initiative by strolling over to kiss Jessica. They soon leave. Sandra and Marshall, humiliated, storm out, upset that they don't even get a chance with Randall and Jessica. As Jessica and Randall leave together, Sandra and Marshall commiserate outside, then come back in, dripping wet but gradually warming up and gaining their composure.]

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Sandra’s snug dress fit even tighter after the rainfall. She felt itchy and exposed, her carefully shaped hair a mess. The horrible scene with Jessica and Randall left her shaking. Imagine, Randall just strolled over and kissed Jessica, on the lips! In the philosophy section! What was Sandra, day-old lunch rolls? Their flirting made her heart sink, and that kiss applied a sledgehammer to her heart. She looked at Marshall, pouring a third pack of Sweet n’ Low into his mega-tall latte. 

“Strange turn of events, yes?” he said. His immense hands dwarfed the cup. “Jessica, she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I guess I wasn’t uptown enough for her. We talked on the phone some, thought it’d be a good idea to meet. Guess not.”

“And what’s Randall’s story? He couldn’t keep his eyes off your date? What’s his problem with me? What’d I do wrong?” Her eyes teared. Rejection rarely fit into Sandra’s social expectations. 

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” said Marshall, brushing a lock of wet hair from his forehead. “Nothing wrong with me. Women, who knows?”

“Yeah, men. Who knows?” said Jessica.

She nibbled a biscotti. The coffee and food tasted wonderful. She felt herself drying off and calming down. 

“Mind if I take out my contacts? My eyes feel a little tired,” she asked, reaching into her purse for her glasses.

“They’re your eyes. Do what feels comfortable.”

Sandra stowed her contacts in their plastic case, then was putting her glasses on when she shrieked, “Damn it!”

“What, what’s wrong?” asked Marshall. His shaggy eyebrows scrunched in concern.

“The lens just popped out of my glasses. I’m blind as a bat! Where’d the lens go? Oh no, everything’s going wrong today.”

“OK, OK, sit tight. Here, I see the lens, it just felt on the floor. Don’t move your feet.” 

Marshall reached down to pick up the lens, which fell next to Sandra’s chair. Bent over, he lingered. Sandra’s legs floated before him, her skirt hiked high so he could see her silk-clad thighs. As he groped for the lens he followed the gliding taper of leg down to her high heels, ankle bracelet, and red-painted toenails. The sharp tang of toe-nail polish drifted into his nose. “Pretty,” he thought. For an instant he fantasized about resting his cheek on her freshly shaved legs, or running a finger up the inside of her thigh to caress her cunt. He next imagined Sandra's probable response, impaling his hand to the floor with her spike heel. Wait, he thought.

“OK, now, here we are, not cracked or chipped,” said Marshall. “Hand me the frames, please.”

“Sure, here,” said Sandra. A wave of tiredness rolled over her. Just one thing after another today, she thought.

“Ah, the problem emerges,” said Marshall, holding the chic metal frame before his eyes. “You’ve got a loose screw, the frame’s opening up. Good thing the screw’s still in, it’d be hard to find if it fell out here.”

“Let me put my contacts back in. I’ll get the glasses fixed tomorrow,” said Sandra. She reached in her purse for the contact case.

“Naah, wait a minute. Hang on,” said Marshall in a rumbling voice with an accent Jessica could not place.

Now it was Marshall’s turn to rummage, through his forest-green Lands’ End bag. “I know I’ve got it here somewhere. Bear with me. Found it.”

Squinting, Sandra saw Marshall open a kit, about the size of a paperback book, and extract the tiniest screwdriver she’d ever seen. He popped the lens in, held the frames shut, and with a few deft turns tightened the screw.

“Try,” he said, handing the glasses to Jessica.

She put them on. The store and Marshall snapped into focus. 

“They fit perfectly! Thanks so much. Wow, you had just the right tool. Are you an optician or something?” asked Sandra. 

Marshall looked genuinely puzzled. “Me, a guy that delivers babies? Hardly.”

Sandra stifled a laugh. He must think I asked if he’s an obstetrician, she thought. She was charmed. “But the tools . . .” she said.

“A guy’s got to be prepared. No, I fix things for a living.”

She looked at the kit on the table, the tools neatly stored in their own compartments, each where it belonged and shining under the store’s lights. Sandra’s thoughts flashed to her mother’s sewing kit with its thimbles, threads, needles, and buttons, a source of amazement when she was a girl. She felt, again, in the presence of practical artistry.

“Can I see it?” she asked, a shy tone in her voice.

Marshall pushed it toward her. “Sure. Nothing mysterious about them, the same things you’ll find in any hardware store, just smaller,” he said. “And what do you do, ahhh, Sonia?”

She looked up. “Almost right. Sandra.”

“Sandra it is. Imprinted on my brain. What do you do, Sandra?”

She held a wrench, about the length of her middle finger, in her hand. While small, it was surprisingly heavy, not toy-like she expected.

“What do I do? I ask myself that sometimes. What do you think I do?” she asked.

“You like trick questions, I see,” he said, smiling faintly. “There’s the obvious answer, the wild answer, and the real answer. If I saw you tomorrow, in your work clothes, I’d have a better guess. Right now, I don’t think you’re in your business clothes. How am I doing so far?”

“So far so good. I wouldn’t dress like this for work.” 

“That narrows the range of options. I have to say, you look great, just for the record.”

She smiled at him. “Why thank you. I wanted to look special.”

“I imagine you look a little special even when you’re not trying.”

“It depends on the day.”

“OK, then. You don’t dress to the nines at your job. That means you’re not a model, a fashion industry executive or, probably, in advertising or publishing. Or high-end retail. That eliminates the obvious answer. Could I see a hand?”

Sonia held out her elegant hand, with the pearl-tipped nails. Marshall cupped it in his larger hand, eyeing it rather clinically, but, she noticed, in no hurry to let go.

“And I seriously doubt you do blue-collar work. Your hands are too nice to be around slicers or machine-shop gear. That’s the wild answer.”

She smiled again. Her hand felt good nestled in his callused palm. He made no attempt to hold her hand, simply letting it rest in his. She reluctantly moved it back.

“So,” said Marshall. “We’ve knocked out the high- and low-end occupations.” He drummed his fingers. “That helps narrow down the choices. Look me directly in the eyes.”

Sandra was startled. This man, this not-quite stranger, had already wandered under her chair (where she sensed his gaze on her thighs, oh she could tell), held her hand, and now practically challenged her to a stare-down. 

“OK,” she said. 

“Just be Sandra, not a woman on a date. Not anything. Just be yourself.”

She emptied her mind of thoughts, and gazed at him. She forgot the smeary make-up, the chatter and music in the café, the work day, and simply looked into Marshall’s deep-set brown eyes.

Lovely hazel eyes, Marshall thought. He thought of the tears in those eyes outside, after Randall rejected her for Jessica. Anger, combined with an undeniable sense of gratitude, flashed through him. Her emotions were close to the surface, yet he sensed a calmness, a strength in those eyes. A smile played on his lips, as she held his gaze far longer than most people could. This was a woman accustomed to observation and truth.

“Whewww!” said Marshall. “OK. We can breathe again.”

“And your findings Dr. Freud?” she asked, wondering what he’d come up with.

“You’re a cop, a scientist, or a social worker,” he said. “You’ve got those eyes.”

“Very good, Marshall. You’re got the reasoning powers of a rabbi,” she said. Sandra waited just a bit to let the anticipation build, like a magician about to pull a dove from her sleeve.

“Well?” said Marshall, a bit impatiently. “How’d I do?”

“Don’t laugh. I’m a senior fraud investigator for an automobile insurance company, one of the biggest. I track down the bad guys who make your insurance rates go up.”

“So I was very close,” he smiled. “You’ve got such honest eyes, and you’re sensitive to what’s going on around you. A worthy mix of traits.”

They sipped their drinks and stayed quiet for a moment. Sandra sat up with a start. “Oh, Marshall, how rude of me. I never asked what it is you fix for a living, you with your tools.”

Now the smile came to his broad face. “You said don’t laugh, so now I’ll tell you, don’t laugh.”

“Why?”

“Because I fix cars for a living.”

Now Sandra chuckled. This could be fun. “Well, I hope I’m not investigating any of your best customers. That would be a tough way to start a new friendship.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. My customers never use insurance. I don’t do collision work. Maybe ‘fix’ isn’t the right word. Restore, that’s a better way to say it. People bring me cars and I make them look good. I get junk heaps that have been sitting in barns for 50 years, and a year later I’ve got them running. Some even win ribbons at shows. My customers can write the checks. They never bounce.”

“The checks don’t bounce, or customers?” asked Sandra with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“The checks. What the customers do in the back seat isn’t my concern unless they want me to remove some stains. Then, yeah, I’m concerned. Well, more amused. But, yeah, I suspect my customers do some bouncing in the back seat. Front seat, too. I’ve cleaned dried gunk off the roof, for goodness’ sake.” 

“Somebody was having a very good time,” said Sandra. She couldn’t believe the turn of conversation.

“A good time and a bad aim. The two can go together.”

“My line of business is a lot less, shall we say, genteel. People run all kinds of scams to get insurance money. You wouldn’t believe how organized and sneaky they are. Criminal rings clip drivers, then get crooked doctors to pad medical insurance bills, chop shops to say the cars are more damaged than they really are. My job is to find them and stop them.”

“I know the types. I despise them. Dishonest jerks. Give everybody in the car industry a bad name. And you’re right, insurance rates are going through the roof.”

“I’d like to think of other things hitting the roof,” said Sandra. She blushed so deeply Marshall looked startled.

“You must not make many friends in your line of work, Sandra.”

“If I wanted to make friends through work, I’d do something else. I like being an investigator. I find things that are wrong and make them right. Like you, Marshall. You take things that are broken and make them beautiful. Or, at least usable.” 

The conversation lulled. The lightning still flashed, but the drumming rain outside the bookstore ended, leaving the streetlights haloed in moist air. 

Marshall sat with a thought, a phrase, threading through his mind. Finally, he decided. “So, Sandra, is this the start of a new friendship? A good start, even?”

“A very good start. But it’s getting late and I have an 8:30 a.m. meeting downtown. Could you walk me to my car? I just parked around the corner.”

“With pleasure. I always wondered what kind of car an insurance fraud investigator would drive.”

She laughed in a throaty way that lodged somewhere deep in Marshall’s mind, something he would remember that night. “Oh, I’m very boring. A Subaru wagon, very safe and practical. And what does a car guy drive? Not a Subaru wagon, I imagine.”

“Come on and I’ll show you.” 

Marshall held the store’s door open, nodding slightly in a very old-world manner as she stepped by him. Something about him, old world, that part moved her closer to the man, thought Sandra, smiling.

For his part, Marshall inhaled slowly as she passed. Like a boat, Sandra threw off a wave of aroma that washed Marshall. He trembled, a man almost capsized in the wake of a woman’s corona of attraction, at the moment equal parts perfume, rainwater and, well, Marshall kept teasing apart the strands of her power. 

They walked easily down the street. A thin stream of people drifted out of cafes and galleries now that the rain had ended. Puddles reflected grey clouds and violet patches of the late-summer sunset. Sandra felt relaxed in the setting. One than one storm had passed in the past hour.

Marshall steered them around a corner on to a quiet side street lined with thick-trunked trees. The street traffic died away. “Here we go,” he said. “My wheels.”

They stood beside a car that Sandra instantly recognized from her childhood. “I can’t believe it! Marshall, you drive this? It’s adorable. I haven’t seen one of these in 30 years. My Aunt Rochelle drove one in the 1960s, the first car I ever saw with power windows.”

“You know your cars, Sandra. Nobody’s going to beat you in an automotive trivia contest. Yep, 1965 Thunderbird, power windows, leather interior, a great car, just a few years before Ford made it big and dumb.”

The car was a sparkling dark blue, and, peering through the window, Sandra saw the deep leather seats and a walnut-rimmed steering wheel. “I overhauled the interior and made that steering wheel myself, one of my specialties. The one thing I didn’t do was the stereo system – I leave the electronics to other guys who really know that field.”

They heard a low whistle. Turning, a young man with lank, rain-flattened hair and a denim jacket emerged from somewhere, perhaps he’d been lurking behind a tree. “Man, that is one nice car,” he said. “Really a piece of work. Yours, man?” he asked, resting a hand on the hood.

“Yeah, it’s mine and I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands off the hood. Not good for the paint,” said Marshall. Sandra detected an edge in his voice. The man moved his hand. “Sure, man, not a problem. Lemme get a look at this baby. I love cars.”

He moved, in silent steps, around them but once out of their sight he lunged. With practiced quickness an arm swooped around Sandra’s neck and his other hand pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket.

“So nice a car I’ve got to have it. Keys, man, now, and you’re done with me. Give me the keys, don’t look, and everything’s cool. Call your insurance company and you’ll get a nice penny for this. Hell, you could buy a Porsche if you’ve got it insured right. Keys, now.”

Marshall stepped ahead and turned around. Sandra’s eyes were wide with fear, the gun jammed into her ribs. Again, as in the bookstore, rage roiled his calm exterior at the thought of anybody threatening this woman. He reached into his pocket.

“You got the keys. Stay cool. It’s just a car. I can get another. No arguments from me,” said Marshall. Through his haze of anger did he really see Sandra winking at him? What’d that mean?

“Give me the keys and start down the block. Don’t look back if you know what’s good for you. I’ve got friends watching you right now and a wrong move is really gonna hurt. Trust me.”

“Oh, I do,” said Marshall. “Just leave the lady alone.”

“She’s mighty pretty. Maybe she’d like a ride. You want a ride, lady?” Again, the wink. “I can show you more fun than this moke ever can.”

“Take the keys, leave the girl, please,” said Marshall. “She has done nothing to you.” His voice was harder, the unplaceable accent tighter and more pronounced. Under stress, layers of Western civility sloughed off him like dead skin from a coiling snake. 

“That’s right, she ain’t done nothing to me, yet,” he said, leering. 

“Here. I’m giving you the key, nice and easy.”

“Unlock the door, first. I’m not gonna goof around with the locks.”

Marshall moved to the side of the door, key out. Sandra and the thief saw his hand shaking as he tried to get the key into the door. “Damnation!” he said as he dropped the key.

Sandra felt the man’s body shift as his eyes and attention followed the keys to the ground. The pressure against her ribs eased enough so she could tell the barrel’s side, rather than its point, rested against her. 

She inhaled, blinked slowly. Now.

Marshall was picking up the keys when a flurry and movement caught his eyes. Where a fearful Sandra stood with a man’s arm around her neck, he now saw the man’s arm with the gun held in front of her while the rest of the man flew over her shoulder. Before Marshall could sort out the scene Sandra had flipped the man, wrenched the gun from his hand, and pinned him to the ground with his arm twisted behind his back.

“Big man, aren’t you, not so big when you’re on the ground, huh, Wayne?” said Sandra, panting. “You wanted to have fun with me? You like me knee on your neck? That what you had in mind, Wayne?”

“You know this punk?” said Marshall. The edge in his voice softened but was still noticeable.

“Wayne Gregory, 21, did a year in juvenile hall for car theft. Moving up to carjacking now, Wayne, you weren’t happy being a juvenile loser, now you’re gunning for adult time? Dumb, dumb, dumb,” said Sandra. She sounded energized and totally in her element.

“The gun’s not loaded, I wasn’t going to do nothing. Let me go. I’m sorry,” he whined, hair dragging in a mud puddle.

“Marshall, could you get the cell phone from my purse? Call 911.”

“No, please, I’m really sorry, lady, I don’t want to do adult time.” The man sounded younger and no longer so tough.

Marshall picked up the slim black-leather purse, which had fallen to the ground. Nice leather, he thought as he undid the clasp, good workmanship. Sandra clearly knew how to buy quality accessories, but he had noticed that from the first, the understated earrings and the simple gold ankle bracelet.

He opened the purse. That terra incognita for men, ever present, never quite understood, joked about and also feared. “Cell phone, cell phone, where art thou?” he asked quietly. Cosmetics, address book, brush, Certs, checkbook, pack of Kleenex; his fingers brushed against several tampons and he swooned. Hers. Such intimacy, even unintentional, stirred him. The slim packages next to his hand gave him a secret, guilty thrill. Hers, he thought again. Maybe Sandra didn't find the topic sexy at all, but the sheer womanly mystery intrigued and at times aroused him. He could be detached about such matters – but not always. He glanced at Sandra, still sassing the totally deflated thief prostrate on the ground. She looked up, smiling at him. He smiled back and pulled the phone from the purse. Intimacy, yes, unintentional – perhaps not. 

Two police cruisers rolled up, lights flashing but sirens off. In a half hour the officers had taken statements, snapped photos, cuffed Wayne, and shoved him into the back seat for a ride to central booking. Sandra and Marshall were left alone on an again quiet street, beside the deep blue Thunderbird. 

“Will the surprises ever end this evening?” asked Sandra. “We’re dumped by our dates, get soaked, meet each other, almost get killed by a thief I recognize. What else could happen?”

Marshall looked thoughtful. They strolled down the street, swathed in the shadows of early evening. The rain storm left the air clear and crisp, so that evening sounds – the low murmur of traffic from the nearby avenue, music from the cafes, shy conversation of new lovers – carried through the air and mixed in a lulling evening melody. 

“What else do we want to have happen? Certain events notwithstanding, we have some say in the course of our lives,” said Marshall. 


Pages of a Day Ch. 01



“Walk me to my car. That’s what I want to have happen,” said Sandra emphatically, putting her hand on Marshall’s arm.

“And I want to get your phone number. That’s what I want,” said Marshall, draping his arm around Sandra’s wide shoulders for a short squeeze.

“That sounds like an agenda we can handle,” said Sandra. “OK, I’ve got a question. Were you really so scared that you couldn’t hold on to the keys? I know we just met, but you don’t strike me as the shaky type.”

He smiled. “I got the sense you had something in mind when you winked at me. I figured I would give you a few extra seconds. Maybe dropping the keys would rattle him. Nice move there, by the way.”

“Thanks. I take karate. In my line of work I need my defenses. But say I didn’t disarm him. Would you have given up your car? I can tell it means a lot to you.”

“Sandra, it’s a car, for God’s sake. Let him have it. Your safety, that was my priority. I wasn’t going to pull any macho act, unless I had a reasonably good chance at success. He had the gun. I didn’t. Not at that moment anyway. The car has a safety lock on it. He would have driven 100 feet and it would have stalled. Only an expert would notice and be able to disarm it. But, you’ve got to believe me on this, even if he took the car, I want you to be safe. I’ve learned my priorities.”

Soon they reached Sandra’s car, the anonymous Subaru wagon. Marshall admired the paint job, but suggested she check the tire pressure. They sat on the hood, reluctant to part.

“Marshall, I’m going crazy trying to figure out your accent. I’m good at those things – I deal with lots of people from all over the world, car people. I just can’t place you.”

“You want to know where I’m from?”

“Yes, I want to know that.” She blushed. “For beginners.”

“OK. Rumania. Born there after the war. Parents survived, Boruch Ha-shem. You know what that means?”

“’Bless the Lord.’ Great – we’ve done the secret handshake. We’re both Jewish.”

“It’s a subtle way to figure these things out without hurting people’s feelings. If it didn’t mean anything, the conversation would go in one direction. Since it meant something, we’ll go in a different direction. We don’t have to explain so much to each other, right?

“Right.”

“So I was born there, outside Bucharest. The Communists took away what the Nazis and their local toadies didn’t destroy. Businesses, houses, family heirlooms – we lost everything. So now, I lose something, I don’t care. I have family and friends, that’s all that matters. So I lose a car to robbery? It’s an aggravation, I like the car, but, believe me, my family lost much, much more than a car and we survived. Life, that’s what matters.”

“But your accent, it’s not quite Eastern European.”

“That’s because it’s not. When I was 10, early 1973, we managed to make aliya and moved to Israel. So I spent a long time in Israel. You’re getting a good dose of Middle Eastern accent. Israel’s where I learned to fix things.”

Sandra eased toward him as they sat on the hood. She did feel low – she’d check the tire pressure the next day. Their hands met, and their fingers intertwined. “I can see it now,” said Sandra, feeling utterly at ease with her fingers in his. “You started with alarm clocks, moved on to radios, then bicycles, then things with wheels and motors.”

“That’s the general pattern. You missed the main part of the story. Things with treads, then things with wings. I was a tank mechanic, then I worked on fighter jets. I did tanks in the Lebanon War in 1982, then jets in time for the Gulf War. I liked the work, did it for 20 years, then decided to try my hand on smaller vehicles in a different place. And that, my dear, led to this.”

Marshall reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a business card. It read, “If you want the best, go to BuchaRestorations, top-rated auto restorer. Marshall Broitman, proprietor & master mechanic. European craftsmanship at reasonable prices.” He jotted down his home and cell phone numbers. 

“There. Everything you need to know.”

She handed him her own business card, Sandra Forgotston, senior fraud investigator. “BuchaRestorations. That’s very clever. Do people get the reference to Bucharest?”

“They do. I give credit to my sister. She’s an advertising copywriter in New York. I would have never thought up something. But it works.”

A low-slung Ferrari, red of course, thumped up the street. Although it rolled slowly, the car’s shape and sound gave it the appearance of blurred speed. Marshall and Sandra both swiveled their heads to watch its approach and departure.

“I did the steering wheel on that one,” said Marshall. “Very particular owner. Wanted the lacquer to be just so with wood that matched a picnic hamper I made.”

“Can you tell two identical cars apart? Even if they look alike? After the plates and Vehicle Identification Number are gone, sometimes I get fooled.”

“Cars, snowflakes, identical twins – pay attention and you can find the variations. Maybe the sound, maybe the smell. Not always outward appearance. Look at you. One outward Sandra, but many different Sandras. I’ve seen a couple. Let’s count the number in the last two hours. Heartbroken Sandra, nearsighted Sandra who couldn’t find her lenses, asskicking Sandra, pardon the expression, and now, well, which one am I seeing?”

“Sandra Sandra.”

“I like all of them. Different facets of the same diamond. My cousin in the jewelry business likes to say that. Good perspective. Look at something from a new angle, see a new sparkle.” 

Sandra slid off the hood to her feet. The short dress stuck to the metal for a few seconds and rode up her legs, so, before Sandra smoothed her skirt, Marshall glimpsed her pink panties, just a flash, surely not meant for him. Or maybe . . .? Marshall imagined his hands caressing the pink material, pulling the panties tight, pulling them aside. He gulped and stood up. He felt a hard-on stirring.

They stood facing each other. The moment seemed right. Her arms circled his thick neck. “Marshall, I had a fabulous time. It didn’t start that way, God knows, but look how it turned out. I can’t even remember that other guy’s name. This has been special. Let’s do it again.”

His hands rested easily on her waist. In his happiness he felt he could lift her in the air and place her on his shoulders, so she could see from high the world around them, their world of cars, coffee, women and men, summer oaks dripping with new rain. But, he simply left his hands on the satiny material, feeling the curve of her hips directly beneath his fingers. The bump of panty line was like a knife’s edge on his palms. 

“Do what again? Get jilted? Once is enough for now.”

She reached up to kiss his lips. He tasted clean and masculine, a man who took care of himself. Jessica was an idiot, she thought. She remembered that name.

“No silly, you know what I mean. Us. I won’t leave you crying in your coffee.”

“Great, I’ll call you. And when I say I will, I will. That’s not just polite chit-chat.”

“Enough with the chit-chat.” The embraced and kissed. For a big man Marshall kissed with tenderness and delicacy, not a hard mash but a light yet passionate touch, just like his hands against her hips. Sandra liked the feel of his warm hands there and pressed her full body against his. Marshall felt her full breasts against him, nipples hardening against his chest. She opened her thighs and draped them around his leg. That dress rode up again, just enough so Marshall sensed the front of her panties pressed against his leg. Sandra in turn felt his cock rustling in the front of his khaki pants. Sandra's body flowed against him like liquid heat, whispering of the passion they could share, on another day, another page. 

“Drive safely,” Marshall said. “Have a good meeting tomorrow.”

“Next time can I get a ride in the Thunderbird?”

“I’ll even let you choose the radio station and play with the electric windows.”

“Goodie!”



Pages of a Day Ch. 02



 [Writer's note: This story contains several Hebrew and Yiddish words that should be defined or explained:

Mohel: Highly skilled Jew who performs circumcisions. Can be a rabbi or an M.D.

Kabbalah: mystical writings, should only be read by men over 40 years of age.

Brit milah: circumcision ceremony for eight-day old boy.

Meshuga: Crazy.

Aufruf: a Yiddish word meaning "calling up" and refers to calling up the bridegroom and bride to the Torah before their wedding day, at a synagogue. Congregants then throw candy at the couple, a symbol of a sweet life.

Shluf mein kind: the title of a famous Yiddish lullaby by the writer Sholom Aleichem.

L'chaim: Hebrew phrase meaning "to life." In the story, Sandra uses it ironically in connection with the reference to the movie "It's a Wonderful Life," when talking about her unhappy life.] ------

Marshall loathed the epithet of grease monkey. Granted, working around cars was a dirty, sweaty business, but an honorable, even essential business. He winced under the, stares of well-dressed upper-class types who tagged him an uneducated foreigner who, they were convinced, lived only to rip them off. Some customers would look at his bulk, hear his thick accent, see the grubby clothes and say, "What a grease monkey." Sometimes he heard their mutterings.

The resentment built until his father, still in Israel, asked, "Marshall, do they spit on you? Do they call you a dirty kike? A zhid? That's what the Russians called us after the war. Have they threatened to kill you?"

"No, none of that. Just dirty looks. Half of them think I don't even speak English."

"And Marshall, do they pay you?"

"Yes."

"No complaints to the consumer protection authorities?"

"Never, on work I do."

"Then let them stare and play the fools. Let them be judged in the next world. Do your work, take their money, and seek the people who recognize you for who you are and treat you with respect. Your energy is too valuable to waste on disrespectful people."


Marshall listened to his father. He had heard some of the stories about his terrifying life in Rumania before or after the war, but his words had special resonance this time. True, nobody abused Marshall, everybody paid him. That's not a bad deal, Marshall thought. They don't like the way I look and talk, so that's their problem. 

When the day came to plan his own specialty auto shop, BuchaRestorations, Marshall knew what he wanted to do and with whom he wanted to do it. No mass-market repairs, first of all, no fixing buckets of bolts. He had developed a specialty of repairing classic cars, with a lucrative sideline of installing gorgeous wooden paneling and steering wheels, even leather luggage, on new and old cars. Nobody would call him a grease money anymore.

First, he considered location. The new car dealerships, scattered along the interstate north and west of the city, couldn't use his services and wouldn't rent him shop space. Closer to town, the industrial zones were thick with repair places--and also chop shops, downscale used car and parts marts, and a generally grimy atmosphere that would scare off the clientele he hoped to attract. Marshall could negotiate the zone, nothing could be worse than the Gaza City casbah he once patrolled--but his customers would associate him with the surroundings. 

That environment did not fit Marshall's vision. And Marshall Broitman was a man with a plan. 

So, what was left? Marshall understood a little about zoning laws; he knew where a shop could go. He also had an unschooled by finely honed sense of the appeal of classic cars. People gawk. They ask questions when they see an old, exotic, or fabulously expensive car. His shop would work on all of them. Put a Prowler or Lamborghini--heck, PT Cruisers caused riots when they first appeared--in a mall and people couldn't resist the urge to look and fantasize. And if the men could sit in the front seat and go "Vroom, vroom," (women hardly ever did that, in his experience), well, the mall shops couldn't open and close the cash registers fast enough. The wildly expensive cars nudged shoppers into a buying mood.

So Marshall decided BuchaRestorations would be a different kind of car place. Repair shop as theater, as magnet, as place where little boys of all ages could say, "Vroom, vroom," and then shop to soothe their inflamed, envious spirits.

The first 10 strip-mall landlords with a suitable space laughed at him. One of the second 10 listened carefully and even discussed the idea with other merchants, who rejected Marshall's vision of BuchaRestorations as "not right for us." Before the 35th conversation, Marshall had his doubts. Maple Centre was more upscale than other areas, not a strip center but a reimagined public square reflecting a designer's attempt to duplicate a European coziness. Stores were arranged on two levels around a central park with a gazebo for concerts. Walking to the landlord's office for his appointment, Marshall noticed a gaping ground-level vacancy, formerly an electronics store that went Chapter 11. Like a toothless gap in a smiling mouth, the entry space near the entrance dragged down the entire atmosphere.

"Here goes," said Marshall as he entered the office.

The landlord, John Tarzia, listened with polite interest. "You fix cars, you say?" he asked. "That's a little outside our typical tenant."

"I restore cars. I am no grease monkey," declared Marshall, his hands splayed on the desk. Sure enough, he saw John's eyes furtively sweep the desk to check for grease and dirt under Marshall's fingernails. John saw nothing but clean hands. "I restore classic cars and specialize in woodwork. I worked at the best places in the city and I have an excellent reputation. I'll pay my bills on time and bring a unique attraction to Maple Centre."

"How?"

"Here's my idea, Mr. Tarzia. Have you ever had a seasonal exhibit here, say, around the time of the big car show at the convention center?" 

"No."

"Well, I can tell you your competitors do. Having cars on display at a center is a tremendous draw. Palmview Court mall teamed up with the local Euro Exoticar dealership and they had to call the police to keep the crowds in line. Those Ferraris and Porsches and Aston Martins drew a very upscale clientele to Palmview. Upscale, Mr. Tarzia, people interested in expensive cars. People who associate Palmview merchants with taste and success." Marshall had honed his pitch perfectly, zeroing in on every landlord's sensitivities and anxieties about competitive threats.

"Keep talking."

"My idea is to have part of my shop open to the public. Have a glass front so your shoppers can see a car restoration in progress. See real craftsmen at work. Let them walk around the perimeter of the shop, away from the tools, but close enough to watch the work going on."

"Keep talking."

"I know what you're thinking. It's never been done before. Yes and no. Not done with cars, but I've seen aquariums feature boat builders. Visitors can see the boats being built from the ribs up. The Norwalk Aquarium in Connecticut does that. Who sees anything being built these days?"

John was quiet. His eyes turned inward, toward memory. Marshall knew what was coming. "He's going to tell me a car story," he thought.

"It's funny we're talking about this, because it makes me think of my first car," mused John. "I was 22 years old, just back from Vietnam, flew a Huey in the Highlands, what a trip that was. Had two of them shot out from under me, but I survived. Believe me, I kissed the medallion of the Blessed Virgin that my mom gave me many times after those incidents. I still wear it," said John. He pulled a medal from between buttons of his shirt. "I never take it off. Anyway, when I got back, I needed wheels so I bought a used '67 Mustang."

"A pony car."

"You bet! I had so much fun in it. Great car, great for a young guy. I loved that car. I had dice hanging on the rear-view mirror, all that crazy stuff. Fat tires, loud."

"And what happened to it?" asked Marshall. He could see a possible drift to the conversation.

"I kept it for 10 years, then when I started making a better living in real estate I moved up. Real estate guys need to look the part. I switched to Mercedes. But I kept the Mustang. Or, my cousin in Philadelphia did. I loaned it to him to use. He's just got it in a garage, don't drive it or nothing."

Marshall paused. Here goes. "Do you want to drive it again, Mr. Tarzia?"

"Call me John." John's eyes misted as he recalled his younger, slimmer self. "Yeah, I can see myself driving it. My bucket may not fit in the bucket seat, though, ha!" He patted the stomach bulging under the shirt. "I don't know what kind of shape it's in. Not too bad, doesn't get driven, just kinda sits there gathering dust. It's in Philly." 

"Let me restore it. I'll give you a good rate, and you can see the work every day. We'll put it in the front window. You can see how BuchaRestorations will draw business for Maple Centre. If we don't draw, or my business doesn't perform to my expectations, the work is free."

Marshall signed the lease that afternoon and began preparing the space the next day with tools and equipment he had acquired over the years. A car-moving company fetched the Mustang from a musty, cobwebbed shed in Philadelphia and transported it to BuchaRestorations as soon as Marshall had the shop and his team in place.

Three years later, BuchaRestorations remained the hottest promotional draw on the regional mall scene, a permanent Santa's workshop where people could watch Marshall and his team of fellow Rumanian-Israelis transform rusting wrecks into shiny, purring automotive magic. John started a tradition with restoration number one, his Mustang, of having a launch party for the completed vehicle. John moved the car into the square and celebrated the project with punch and cookies for the shoppers that day. Resplendent in a tuxedo, John talked about the car and, yes, let kids sit in the front seat and make revving engine noises.

"Marshall, my new tenant, he gets the credit. Guy's an automotive genius, made this car something to behold, right, Marshall?"

"Thank you for the kind words, John," he said. "I am happy to share the credit with Ariel, Tal, and Mendel. We're all one team." He nodded toward the three, resplendent in their clean pit-crew overalls that gave the shop its distinctive professionalism and Indy-style glamour.

Indeed, the three shop associates, as Marshall called them, were part of the vision of an upscale, appealing environment for BuchaRestorations' expensive services. All friends from Rumania and the Israel Air Force days, Ariel, Tal, and Mendel were skilled mechanics and automotive craftsmen who could easily run their own shops, but preferred the camaraderie of working as a group. Tal, in particular, had extraordinary skills. The sister of a jet pilot who now ran security services for a chain of high-end apartment buildings in Central America, Tal understood and maintained anything in the Israeli military that rolled, flew, or shot. Marshall had seen her, blindfolded, tear apart and rebuild every weapon smaller than a cannon, and jet engineers consulted with her to get a mechanic's view of aircraft design. 

Yet for all her skills, Tal never aspired to rise in the ranks or make a career in the military. She liked the mechanic's life, and when her brother and Marshall moved to the United States, she decided to strike out west also. She joined the team and proved a hit with the customers. Through the glass that separated the front restoration bay from the mall, people gawked at the woman in the tight blue jumpsuit, bust and hips straining the fabric, exotic (in the West, anyway) Eastern European eyes always perfectly made up, thick black hair braided to protect it from the humming, spinning power tools.

Business success did not translate into social success for Marshall. Women had difficulty looking beyond his bulk, accent, and workplace to see the man. An early, unhappy marriage in Israel only whetted his appetite for another chance at love and marriage. He dated – the city was large enough to offer some solace – but nothing really stuck. American women complained he was too reserved, and he found many American women too bright and brittle, lacking in warmth – or, perhaps protecting their warmth under layers of sophistication.

A friend of a friend set Marshall up with Jessica, the date of the dead. He never had a chance with her. But, he mused one evening after the crew departed, as he sipped his extra-tall chocolate latte at his desk in the back office of BuchaRestorations, fate had something else in mind for Jessica and for Marshall. Perhaps that fate involved Sandra Forgotston, the senior auto-insurance fraud investigator who entered his life at the very moments Jessica was leaving. 

He looked at his watch. Lovely Sandra was meeting him at his office in five minutes, at 7 pm, for a tour of the shop, followed by dinner at a "mystery location," as Marshall said when he called her.

"You know how to grab a girl's interest," she said.

"I wouldn't start anywhere else," he said.

"But grabbing me there, that's just the start?" she asked, a question in her voice, wondering whether they would turn a new page in their relationship.

"Well, we have to start somewhere, yes?" he said in a dry tone.

"True," she said, idly running a finger from her throat down between her breasts through her silk blouse. Marshall, with his no-nonsense voice and dignified presence, inspired her wondering thoughts – and her delicious touches, between her breasts (and other places). 

Before she left her office, Sandra observed traffic churning along I-95 far below her office building. The curve of traffic around a bay framed a charming view. Sailboats bobbed in the harbor, a wide strip of glittering sand formed a bright smile around the blue water. She had not been on a boat there with a man in years. A city summer passing by, she thought, how long since she had a romantic city summer, rather than one devoted to work and lonely trips to the gym? Other promising relationships flamed out, sometimes because of her, sometimes the man, occasionally both felt, within minutes, they lacked a spark. But with Marshall, something about that first meeting struck her deeply. She was determined to guard the tender flame and make the flickers dance brighter.

Marshall drummed his fingers on his desk. The crew left the shop extra clean. Every tool was in its place, wood and metal shavings swept away, chemical containers closed tight to contain the acidy smells. 

He hoped Sandra would not be disappointed. Sure, he made a good first impression on her, and they had common interests, but a beautiful, educated woman like Sandra? She had an important job at a big company. However much Marshall considered himself a craftsman, some women just couldn't get past the non-white collar profession and style. Indeed, his Israeli side made him constitutionally unable to wear a tie for anything but the most formal events. A sports coat and open-collar shirt were the epitome of dress-up for him. Well, Sandra got what she saw. 

Marshall heard a knock at the business entrance in the back. He stood up, throwing on his new Lands' End blue sports coat over his (only) yellow button-down shirt. He felt as if he were attending a bar mitzvah.

"Showtime," he said.

"Let's see how this goes," Sandra whispered at the same time as she stood outside the door with the Ferrari decal on it.

With a deep breath Marshall opened the door. "Shalom," he said, a smile widening on his face as he saw her. "It's great to see you, Sandra."

"Hi, Marshall, I' glad to be here," she said, a brightness hiding her nervousness. He bent down to kiss her cheek. 

In a glance Sandra took in Marshall's sartorial efforts. The jacket looked almost unworn, and the shirt retained a fresh-from-the-drycleaner smell and crispness. The kiss told her he had just brushed his teeth.

"Here's where the magic happens, BuchaRestorations," he said, holding the door open for her. The back of the shop, closed to prying eyes, had three cars in various stages of restoration, in spacious separate bays. Tool shelves sectioned off another area of tables. Marshall led Sandra to that area.

"Here's where we do the custom woodwork, steering wheels, and luggage. Different tools, and I'm working with wood and leather rather than metal. I like this part the most," said Marshall. "I'm creating something on my own, not just restoring somebody else's work. That's what pays the bills, of course."

Sandra strolled the shop, fascinated. She felt as if she had stepped into a medieval guild, where masters created artwork that would last for centuries. A low murmur of music drifted through the shop, from an unseen source. 

"I love that music, but I can't identify it. Jazz? Classical, flamenco?" asked Sandra. She rotated her head to find the source.

"Rumanian gypsy music, from émigrés living in Paris," he said. "Everybody in my shop was born in Rumania. We all remember the place. You know, love-hate," he said.

Sandra nodded sympathetically. "You can take the boy out of Rumania, but you can't take Rumania out of the boy," she said, touching his arm. 

"Something like that. We like to keep music going during the day. It's our secret plot to expose Maple Centre visitors to music you don't hear on FM radio."

"Aren't you crafty. You sell CDs here, too?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Marshall. He steered her to a small display of CDs. Mendel's got a cousin who's a clarinetist in a klezmer band that's constantly touring Europe. So we sell that, the gypsy band you've heard, other European and Israeli folk music, Django Rheinhardt. Some of it sounds almost like Brazilian bossa nova. When somebody hears something in the shop they like, we say it's available. Our restoration customers get whichever ones they want, gratis."

"What, your customers can't afford a CD?" Sandra joked.

"Oh, they can afford a CD. They're paying an average of $50 an hour for these restoration jobs."

"Almost like therapy for your car. Say, who's Django Rheinhardt?" The name almost slipped past her.

"Belgian gypsy. Fantastic jazz violin player in the 30s and 40s. Django died far too young. I love his music. He puts me in the mood," said Marshall, reverently.

"The mood for what?" asked Sandra.

"For whatever mood I want to be in. It's amazing music. When I feel happy, the music sounds happy. When I feel sad, his music sounds sad, but soothing. I'll play some later."

"To get me in the mood, you naughty boy?" she said.

"I thought you already were in the mood. For dinner, maybe?"

"That special dinner you were talking about?" said Sandra. "Yes, I believe I am. Got your fiery steed ready to whisk me to the banquet hall?"

"No fiery steed. Will a blue Thunderbird work for you?"

"Just what I wanted to see. Remember our deal?"

You choose the radio station and make the windows go up and down."

Marshall ushered her to the parking lot behind the business entrance. In a reserved spot sat the blue Thunderbird, sparkling in the early evening sunshine. The first time they met, the clouds and rain muffled the paint job, but now, on a clear day, the car shone like a freshly cut diamond. Its blue was deep, like mountain pools, with tiny sparkles that made the surface shimmer.

"I've never seen such a paint job. It's fabulous," said Sandra as Marshall opened the passenger door for her. She slid into the deep leather bucket seat.

"My special technique. The customers love it. The eye naturally goes toward a paint job that's so subtle. It's like looking into a whirlpool, in a way."

"You have a lot of special techniques, Marshall?" asked Sandra with a purr as he started the engine.




Pages of a Day Ch. 02



"There's the paint, of course, then the way I apply the lacquer to the dashboard wood," he explained, utterly missing Sandra's playful meaning of "special techniques." He can be sooo serious, she thought.

She pressed the button on the side of her door. Sure enough, the window silently moved down; a push in the other direction and the window rose. Sandra felt like a kid. Power windows were common, but in a car like this, they had been the latest technology. 

"OK, now I've done windows. Let's see what's on the radio," she said.

She turned a dial and the radio lit up. The station, broadcasting the state university in the city, was at the moment playing "The End" by the Doors. "Eek, that's no Django Reinhardt. What a depressing song to play on such a pretty day," said Sandra. "Those college students. I could use something more in the spirit of summer."

"You're the radio crew, put on whatever you'd like," said Marshall as he pointed the car toward the Maple Centre exit.

She hit the button, listening for a few seconds to hear what was on.

"On Wall Street today." Click.

"Stunning a crowd of onlookers at the Vatican, Michael Jackson." Click.

"Yo, yo, yo for the lowwwwest prices, move your butt down to." Click.

"Next, the immortal piano stylings of Liberace." Click

"And then Jeeeesus said unto the harlot." Click.

"Just when that was getting interesting," Marshall grumbled in a good-natured way.

"Give a radio preacher a few minutes and he'll start talking about how much he loves the Jewwwwwws. I can do without that."

"Agreed. Keep looking."

Finding a suitable station proved more difficult than Sandra expected. Then she turned the dial just a bit and . . . 

"Hot time, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty, cool cat looking for a kitty . . . "

"That's more like it," Sandra said. "John Sebastian and the Lovin' Spoonful, 1967. One of the great summer songs."

"Ahhh, 1967, we were trying to get out of Rumania. Not such a great summer for us. The Securitate, they hounded us every day."

"Securitate? What's that?" asked Sandra.

"Rumanian secret police. Very bad men. Brutes. Anti-semites, of course. Never a moment of peace for anybody in the country."

She turned to him, his hands firmly on the steering wheel at the 10-and-2 position beloved by driving instructors everywhere. She could only guess at the pain behind "not such a great summer." 

She put her hand on his forearm. She felt the muscles beneath the jacket and shirt. "I'm, I'm sorry it was so hard for you," Sandra said. "Nobody should suffer like that."

He sighed. "We got out. So did many of our friends. In that respect, the Rumanians were a little better than others. They let our people go, grudgingly. We went to Israel. Now some of us are here. Next year, next decade, who knows? What is the plant in cowboy movies that keeps blowing around?"

"Tumbleweeds."

"Yes, tumbleweeds. Blown from place to place."

"You've got a shop. You've been here a long time. Maybe this is a place for roots."

He glanced quickly at her and smiled. "Yes, even a weed that tumbles can put down roots. I like this place. If I ever call a place home, this is it." He moved the Thunderbird into a turning lane and asked, "Are you sad, Sandra?"

"I don't like to think of people I care for suffering." There, she said it, turning a page in her mind. 

"I don't either. So let's agree to make it like the song, yes? Our summer in the city. What are the rest of the lyrics? I do not know the song at all."

Sandra sang the song for him in her tuneful voice. Marshall flashed on the image of her as a singer in a darkened lounge, atop a barstool, a spotlight shining off her lustrous brown hair, perspiration aglow on her curving cleavage and shoulders in a sleeveless gown. A bass-drums-piano trio laid the subdued foundations for her love songs. He was in the audience. She sang to him only.

"Marshall? The light turned green. You'd better turn while we still have the protected left," she said gently.

"Right. I was just thinking about, oh, I don't know. I like that song."

"If we wait long enough we'll hear some Beach Boys."

"That group I have heard of. 'Little Deuce Coupe,' that's a favorite among car people," said Marshall. "Almost there."

Soon Sandra saw their destination: Fast Food on Wheels, the city's only drive-in restaurant, a place so old, dating from the 1940s, that it long ago regained a kitschy charm that made it a favorite of seekers of off-beat food experiences. Waitresses on skates zipped among dozens of cars angle-parked in bays, each bay equipped with a squawk box for orders and a mini-jukebox with a dozen different channels of music. A quarter brought 15 minutes of tunes.

"Here we are, car food for car people," said Marshall. 

"This is great," said Sandra. "I've always heard off this place but I've never come here. I guess I never had a reason to. It didn't sound like fun for a solo meal."

"It's not," said Marshall. "It only took me 20 meals here to figure that out. But I'm a smart guy, I finally realized I ate too much when I was here feeling lonely."Sandra smiled and patted his arm. "You're not lonely now, I hope."

"Not since we walked back into the bookstore," he replied. "I thought you might like to know that."

"Hmmm, I do like to know that," said Sandra, heart thudding. An awkward silence settled in the car. So," she said brightly, "Shall we order some food on wheels?"

They both got hamburgers, a large banana shake for Marshall, a Diet Sprite for Sandra, and an order of onion rings to share. And plenty of napkins.

"This is great car food," said Sandra, biting into her burger. "And I can't think of a better car to eat it in."

"I wouldn't mind a convertible, so our hair could fly in the wind," said Sandra. "Hey, you're the radio operator, pick a channel to play from the jukebox here." Marshall read the choices: Motown, classic rock, jazz, Nashville, rap, Latin, and "painfully earnest folkies."

"What was that last one?" asked Sandra, cocking her head at him.

"A joke. You'll have to get your Joni Mitchell someplace else."

"If I can't get Joni, then I'll choose Motown."

"Excellent choice." Marshall popped a quarter in and soon "You Keep Me Hangin' On" by the Supremes started.

"Let's give credit to Randall and Jessica for not giving us that treatment. They didn't keep us hanging on at all," said Marshall.

"She acted like a bitch, but I should thank her. Otherwise she'd be with you," added Sandra. Her attraction to Marshall made her recklessly bold. So far, she thought, she hasn't backed away.

"I seriously doubt that. She didn't seem like the auto-shop type. Maybe a date or two, but would it last? Not likely."

"But Marshall," said Sandra, putting down her hamburger. "You're more than a car guy. That's what you DO, not what you ARE. You're a kind, decent and funny guy. We haven't known each other long, but you're a gentleman. A mensch, you know?"

"Some women find that boring. I've been told in so many words."

"Well I don't find it boring at all. Au contraire."

"Excuse me?"

"That's French. On the contrary. We have a lot to talk about."

Marshall was quiet. He hadn't had a woman sit in his car in a year. The automatic transmission lever separated the bucket seats. Their arms brushed against each other as they ate. Each touch gave Marshall a thrill. However many women he had touched in the past, on whatever continent, the first elusive brushes with a woman he liked had a special, electric power. In the close quarters, Sandra had a pulsing physical presence, even when she wiped ketchup from her lips. Marshall imagined her body beneath the pretty pants suit, with the yellow sleeveless blouse that gave him tantalizing peeks at her bra straps. The fast-food smells couldn't cover her perfume, Sandra's wonderful womanly aroma that suffused the car like oxygen filling an astral vacuum.

Sandra, he thought. Here, with me, enjoying herself, amazing.

Once they finished, their hands fell easily together on top of the glove box case between the bucket seats. Sandra rested her hand there, and Marshall simply placed his on top. His beefy, clean fingers closed around her smooth, manicured hands. Sandra flashed back to the time when Marshall examined her hand at their first meeting, as part of his analysis of her work. Then, the connection felt a bit clinical, but good; now, the connection felt delicious, each of them sensing the steady pulse of blood from the other. Marshall felt Sandra's heartbeat bump up when he gently covered her hand.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he asked.

She smiled. "I feel like a teenager, holding hands in the car."

"We've never too old to be young, that's my attitude. You don't stop wanting this when you hit 40. Yeah, I want it more."

"I don't have longer before I'm 4-0," said Sandra, brightly but with a quiver in her voice. 

"You'll survive," said Marshall. "I did. And, well, what's the alternative? Eternal youth?"

"I know, I shouldn't feel bad, your family survived worse things in Romania," she said with a chuckle.

"What did you say?" he asked. "Please repeat that."

Sandra looked at him. Her stomach churned when she saw a dark curtain fall over his eyes. "I, I was just joking."

"That is not a very funny joke. Yes, my family survived worse things than turning 40. Those that survived, that is. Sadly, my dear Sandra, I had many relatives that, thanks to the Germans and our neighbors, were spared the trauma of turning 40." His voice rang with a hard edge, as if her words had frozen something in him, turning the soft Marshall into a man of grief and bitter feelings. "Shall I tell you what happened to save them from turning 40? Turning 20? Turning 10? You choose the age and I will tell you."

She turned her head to look out the windows. Tears welled in her eyes at the surge force of his anger at her stupid comment. He's going to kick me out of the car, I know it, she thought. Oh my God, give me another chance. She dabbed her eyes with a napkin and turned to him, but new tears balanced on her eyelids, about to descend her cheeks.

"I am so, so sorry, Marshall. Please forgive me. I was just, not thinking. Of course that's a terrible thing to make any joke about, your family's suffering. I wish I could turn the clock back two minutes. I'd do anything to take that back. There's no excuse."

He stared straight out the window. Sandra's wonderful smell seemed far away from him, replaced by the acrid odor of memories stoked across family dining tables in Bucharest, Haifa, and elsewhere. The stories – his parents, unlike other Holocaust survivors, readily shared their experiences – pounded in his temples, threatening a headache. Sandra saw the unimaginable in the red rims of Marshall's eyes. 

He shook his head wearily. She couldn't have known his family's history, his responses to such comments. Now, she did. "I'm sensitive about this. You didn't know. So, we keep learning about each other, what we like and dislike. I forgive you. It's the past. Someday soon I will say something dumb and then you will be the forgiver. Fair enough?"

Sandra looked at him, and her big, rumpled, barrel of a man now calmly gazed into her eyes. "You're not going to throw me out of the car?" she asked, seriously.

"I would only throw you out of the car if the car was on fire, Sandra," he said in his matter of fact voice.

"Still friends?"

"Of course we are still friends. Let us shake on it."

With exaggerated formality they shook hands across the bucket seats. The corporate grip softened into fingers entwined and caressing. In her mind Sandra heard the flutter of pages flipping in a breeze, from one chapter to another. The electric touch of hands, the sweet reconciliation after a clash, drew them together. Corkscrewing their bodies in the bucket seats, Marshall and Sandra faced each other and leaned over so their lips met across the space. 

They kissed lightly at first, in the gathering dusk of Fast Food on Wheels. Their lips joined, then pulled apart with a smacking sound that made them both laugh. "Good for a start. How about one for the road?" said Sandra, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Just one?" said Marshall. "OK, one for the road, but it will be a long road." 

Again they leaned together and kissed. This time, their lips lingered and pressed more urgently. Marshall tasted the mix of lipstick and French fries on Sandra's mouth. She tasted good, feminine but not like a hothouse dainty, no, rather a strong woman who liked to mix it up with a man, he thought. A murmur, a throaty "mmmmmm," vibrated from her larynx to her lips to Marshall's lips, branching to his brain and his crotch. "Mmm, nice," he said back to her. Sandra's female sensors detected an uptick of his desire. He shifted noticeably in his seat. 

"Let's make it a long road," she said between kisses.

"The road goes back to my shop. Want to continue to our discussion there, see the rest of the office? We can visit the bookstore at Maple Centre first and get some coffee. Whatever you feel comfortable with, Sandra."

"Well," said Sandra, wondering just how comfortable she would be later that evening. Very comfortable, she imagined. Still, a little voice warned her about the old-world formality framing Marshall. "I could be comfortable with many things. And you? Shall we find out what Marshall's comfortable with?"

"Let us do that. To the office we go," he said, turning the keys.

No lapses in attention slowed the return to Maple Centre. As soon as a light turned green, Marshall was rolling, and before long, as dusk fell, they parked next to Sandra's Subaru in the lot behind BuchaRestorations. The mall still hummed with night activities, restaurants, a jazz café, the octoplex cinema, an independent bookstore. 

"So? Next stop for the evening?" asked Marshall. He sensed the evening's arc angling in several directions, each pleasant. But he wanted to leave the options open to Sandra.

"Why don't we get some ice cream and eat it in your office?" she said, hoping she didn't sound too eager to find a private place.

"I like that idea. Peanut butter and chocolate in a cup is my favorite," said Marshall. 

"You really like your ice cream, I can tell from your voice," teased Sandra, confident again in her ability to strike the right tone with Marshall.

"You know the way to this man's heart," he said. "And your favorite?"

"I'm not too much for super-chocolaty flavors. I like pecan, vanilla with fruity swirls. Is there hope for us?" she asked, lightly slapping his arm.

"I think we can overcome our dessert differences. Perhaps we will need couples ice-cream counseling," he said, getting into the spirit of the exchange. 

They strolled to the ice cream shop, where Marshall bought peanut butter for him, pecan for her. Rather than rush to the office, they sat on a bench near a gurgling round fountain in the center plaza. Couples and families circled the plaza, a perfect summer evening that included fireflies twinkling in loops around the chairs and grass. A few drops of water splashed on Sandra's arms and chest. The cool sensation stirred her. All day, impatient for the evening with Marshall, every touch felt like a caress, an aching substitute for real intimacy; the softness of a towel at the gym; the deep leather creak of her office chair as her thighs fell against it; the cream of an iced coffee sliding past her lips and down her throat. And now, soft drops patted her arms and even formed a rivulet that gathered at her throat and slowly, slowly slid down to nuzzle between her breasts.

After that endless build-up, Marshall sat in the flesh beside her. He deftly scooped the last bits of peanut butter ice cream from his cup. A few bites remained of Sandra's pecan ice cream. She filled her spoon and waved it in front of Marshall's face.

"Here, you're a growing boy, you need your strength. Finish it," she said.

Marshall's eyes lit up. "A treat from my treat," he said, opening his mouth. Ice cream really was his weakness! She thought.

"Would you be upset if I said, 'Here comes the choo-choo?'" she asked as the spoon approached his mouth. 

"Just don't let your mother hear you say it. She might think you were practicing for . . . the future."

I am, my dear Marshall, I am, even if you don't realize it yet, Sandra thought to herself, then said, "Oh, motherhood is the farthest thing from my mind. I'm just a simple Jewish career gal, happy to work 12 hours a day, go to the gym, eat ice cream alone, and cry my eyes out at other people's kids' bar mitzvahs. It's a wonderful life, l'chaim." 

"L'chaim," said Marshall as the last boxcar of pecan ice cream slid into the roundhouse of his mouth. "And what parts of that last statement am I supposed to take seriously?"

"The part about crying at bar mitzvahs, not to mention bat mitzvahs, weddings, aufrufs, brit milahs, baby namings, and bridal showers. I'm a hardass at work, but a mush everywhere else."

"Like bookstores when you get dumped by blind dates?"

"You got it."

"You weren't a mush when that punk jammed a gun in your ribs."

She shrugged. "In my line of work that was just another day at the office. Piece of cake."

"Ah, but around a piece of wedding cake, that's another matter."

"True. If you've got a piece of wedding cake in the fridge at your shop, don't show it to me."

"No threat of that. Say, are you ready to take another look at the shop?"

"I thought you'd never ask. Let's go," said Sandra as she put their napkins and cups in a trash can.

They strolled across the plaza, holding hands. The crowds thinned a bit, park lights were already aglow, a breeze stirred the deep-green leaves of trees along the footpaths. Marshall fished a key from his pocket when they reached the back entrance. Beyond the door, the shop was dark.

"Nobody here this time of night finishing up projects?" asked Sandra, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Working late isn't part of the union contract. In the restoration business, there are no rush jobs. So, we are the only ones here," said Marshall, closing the door. "Here's the shop. You've seen the work area. I've got my office over here." He led her to an area partitioned off by moveable walls, like an office cubicle.

"Very simple office for the boss," said Sandra, eyeing the desk, computer table, low-slung bookcases, and a plaid-fabric couch across from the desk.

"My proletarian roots are showing," he said. "We all work here as a team. The books are open. We have no secrets, not after growing up together and serving in the military. My money got the place going, but my team's skills keep it going. I would have called the place Car Kibbutz but nobody would understand what I meant, unless they were Israeli."

"You have so many car books here," said Sandra. Hundreds of books on automotive history, design, mechanics, and lore lined the office, with model cars on the top shelf. 

"I like to read. You should see my apartment. I decided, long ago, that I had to be an expert on cars to do my work. Not just have the technical skills. The customers, many of them are car fanatics, far more than I am. When they come here, they feel good when I can talk about, oh, I don't know, who won at Le Mans in 1957, or why Ferraris are red, or whether the Edsel was really a bad car. I'm selling, how would the marketers say, an automotive experience, not just a restoration service."

"Hence the team jump suits and the open design so people can see what's going on. Those are parts of the experience."

"Yes. The experience puts people in the mood to write me large checks for expensive restorations. Of course, the quality of our work means they never regret writing those checks."

Sandra perched on the edge of the desk. The rounded corner cut through her pants to tease her bottom. One part of the office struck her fancy.




Pages of a Day Ch. 02



"And the couch?"

"Ah, the couch. Two reasons for that. First, customers often want to chat with me about cars, their cars, other cars in the shop. We could go to the mall to get a drink, but often they like the atmosphere here. But the customers can get in the way of the real work being done, so the couch gives me a place to park them away from the power tools. They love the books, too. And they know they're dealing the man in charge."

"The man in charge being Marshall Broitman, first among equals?"

"You could say that."

Sandra hopped, with a thump, off the desk and sat on the couch. Its surprising firmness kept her from sinking deeply into its innards. The velvety fabric molded around her, and she could tell the couch was expensive and well built. 

"And what's the second reason for the couch?" she asked.

A boyish gleam lit Marshall's eyes. "So we can sit together and have passionate kisses." He failed to suppress a smile. 

His words stunned Sandra. A deep blush covered her cheeks and crept down her neck. She felt very warm. Yes, she already sat on the couch where Marshall wanted to exchange kisses, and . . . what else? In the seconds between he spoke and she could move her lips in a coherent manner, a wave of panic washed over the blush. Marshall – how well did she know him? Some phone conversations, a second date. Sure, everything went well and she had mad thoughts of a life with him (choo-choo chugging down the tracks of love), but she was bruised enough by life before him to keep hope leashed. 

He was talking to her . . . "If you want to have them, of course. I will do nothing that makes you uncomfortable."

Sandra struggled to clear her head. In her mind, in her bones, she knew who Marshall was. No artifice, no BS, no games, just a big guy with a big heart who was inviting her to make out with him, right there, right now. Other guys had tried this and Sandra had politely shook her head and left. If she demurred, she knew Marshall would never try to sweet-talk her into changing her mind. He'd shrug and say, "OK, I just thought to ask. Never ventured, nothing gained, right?"

He still was talking . . . "This isn't a now or never proposition, Sandra. If you don't feel ready, we don't have to do anything. I understand." He sounded so matter of fact. But his eyes told her something else. In them she saw pools of warmth, longing, and readiness, a man who knew what he wanted, and he wanted Sandra.

"Come, sit. Your couch is very comfortable," Sandra finally stammered. "Do you have customers who just don't want to leave?"

"If I need to go I tell them. They understand. I am not one to chit-chat when I must work. So, you like my little couch? It's nicer than anything in my apartment." Marshall sat beside her, toward the middle of the couch. Sandra sat on the side, snug against the arm rest. Their thighs were an inch apart. Marshall sat down carefully, so Sandra would not feel trapped or cramped; some women found his size – a matter of solidness and a barrel chest more than any fat – intimidating. 

"I like your couch, and I like you, Marshall," she looked at him, her lips full and moist. "A passionate kiss sounds like a very good idea. Remember, we had one for the road in the car? It's time for a refresher."

They leaned together. Their lips met in another light kiss. Marshall tasted pecan with the lipstick. Strands of her brown hair cascaded forward. The strands looked very dark against her yellow pants suit with the sleeveless blouse and the big buttons that hovered, like blinking UFOs, just inches from his fingers. 

The next thing he knew, Marshall felt Sandra's hand on his neck, pulling him down to her with the unquenchable force of a hungry woman. The light kiss turned insistent, probing, and his eyes fluttered open at the feminine wave surging toward him from a brown and yellow sea. He heard her panting. Gently pulling her closer, Marshall could feel Sandra heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, fast and hard and for him. His hand on her back told him of the heartbeat, the heat, the woman so close to him. Under the thin fabric, his hand found a Sandra who was hot and a little shaky.

"Here, get comfortable," he said. His big hands moved to her waist. With an effortless tug that left their lips locked, Marshall hoisted Sandra on to his lap, so their faces were at the same level. "Better?" he said as he kissed her cheek.

"Much. I feel so at ease with you, Marshall, like I've known you for years." She held his face with her hands and kissed his lips, his head, his nose, both cheeks. Sandra tasted the salty tang of fresh sweat. Her fingers dipped inside his shirt and she scratched his collarbone. He sighed when she did that.

"Maybe we have known each other for years, Sandra, but we just didn't know it," he said, tracing a finger from her chin to her sternum, just above the first button.

"Marshall, you have your mystical side, don't you?" she said, unbuttoning his shirt. His erection pushed against her from beneath her pants. The throbs were obvious even through his Dockers.

"I'm old enough to study the Kabbalah. You know a lot of the ancient mystical writings deal with sex," he said. His fingers toyed with the first bewitching button. A kiss on her throat had Sandra leaning her head back, inviting more, more, and more touches. "Those old rabbis in favor of it?" she said, running her hand across his curl-covered chest.

"That's another discussion, my sweet," he said. "But I'm in favor of sex."

"I'm so glad," she said, nipping his earlobe. "I see your fingers around twitching in front of my blouse. Go ahead – they won't bite you."

Marshall kissed her deeply, his tongue touching hers. Encouraged, he pressed his hand against her breasts through the blouse. Their roundness and warmth startled him. The back of his hand brushed against her nipple, hard through the lacy bra. She shivered at the first contact, and felt his cock shift in his trousers against her.

"Ahh, can you feel what you're doing to me? My boobs are so hard," she breathed. He surprised her. Expecting him to attack the buttons and get her shirt open, he instead played with her, through the layers. She squirmed as his hand brushed back and forth across her breasts. When his fingers circled a nipple and gently squeezed, Sandra practically hit the ceiling.

"Oh, Marshall, what you're doing to me. My nipples are so hard now." She pressed her hand against his, pushing it closer and firmer on to her blouse. With his fingers splayed, Marshall's hand covered her entire breast. Well, she thought, he can play around outside, but I'm going in. With a woman's deftness she pulled Marshall's shirt tail out and unbuttoned him all the way. Impatiently she pushed the Marshall's shirt down to the navel and then pulled the shirt tail out. Her clear-polish covered fingernails raked down his chest to his bellybutton, then zipped up to tweak his nipple. He jumped.

"Hmmm, boys like that, too? I like that in a man," she said. Her breasts were about the burst out of her bra. If Marshall didn't undo the center snap, well, she'd just do it herself.

"I don't have any hang-ups about you touching my nipples," said Marshall, finally fumbling with the first jumbo button. "My attitude is, how do you say it in English, what's good for the goose is good for the gander. I won't do anything to you that I wouldn't want done to me."

"I'll make a little mental note of that. This is going to be fun," said Sandra. Her hair kept falling into her eyes. She kept flipping it back behind her ears, but with the next stroke and kiss it flopped back.

"Hey, can we take a quick break? I need to get a hair band. I can't stand my hair flying around like this," said Sandra, pulling back from his kisses. 

"Good idea. You do that and I'll put on some music."

"Django?"

"Of course. Don't get naked. Not yet."

"Nasty boy, making me wait."

"What's the rush?"

"You've got me so horny I want to rip your clothes off and stuff you inside me right now."

"Ah, you've been reading too many erotic short stories," Marshall joked, carefully removing his shirt and draping it over a chair. "Does that happen in real life?"

"You want it to? I sure do! I'm shameless. Now you know," said Sandra, her hair pulled away to reveal her fresh, flushed face. She curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, heart still pounding and hands frantic to hold Marshall to her again. 

Django's violin swirled through the office from unseen speakers. Marshall returned to the couch. Again, with the grace of a ballet master, the lifted her in the air and settled her on his lap. In a flash Marshall, a fast learner of the intricacies of women's clothes, undid all but the lowest of her blouse's buttons. It formed a silky "V" shape tapering from her shoulders to the crotch of her trousers. Deliciously exposed, Sandra snuggled against Marshall's warm, fuzzy chest. Her breasts, straining against her filmy bra, pushed into him, piercing him with their silky heat. Beneath her, his hardness pressed through four layers of clothing to caress her most private parts. A silly but startling image struck her. Marshall was like a pneumatic jack covered in khaki. This very special jack was lifting her, bit by bit, to a new, high day in her life.

"Take my shirt off?" she said, "so we can match?"

"Leave it on, OK, for now?" he said. "A little clothing, I like that. You sure you want to keep going?"

She kissed his nose. "The road looks clear, all signals green for this race gal. Having doubts, Marshall? Time to wave the yellow caution flag? Are we going too fast? Time for a pit stop?" The car terms tumbled out of her, but they made sense.

"Green lights for me, too, so long as we're on the same track," said Marshall. 

She kissed his nipple. "I like you with your shirt off. Such a sexy beast." She leaned back and apprised him. He did look like a bear – an ursine gym rat, she thought, proportioned and muscled but not so ripped to look ridiculous for a man in his 40s. And that pneumatic lift that throbbed beneath her hips, well, her curiosity about that was also rising by the minute. 

The yellow blouse brushed against Marshall's hand as it moved to her breast and cupped it through the bra. "So warm, so soft, such a sweet maidele," sighed Marshall. He sounded, and felt, like he had found something he had sought for a long, hard time. Through her haze of delight, Sandra detected the return of his accent, but not in the angry tone she heard at the attempted robbery, but a warm, loving voice redolent of places far away – a voice tempered in an ancient city on a river, Bucharest, a Latin memory on a modern tongue, rolling cadences from the land he left. She loved that voice. Rumania . . .

"Why did you say that?" Marshall's voice tickled her ear.

"Say what?"

"You said, 'Rumania, Rumania,'" he said.

"Oh," she giggled, " I was just listening to your beautiful voice. It made me think of Rumania."

He leaned against the couch. "Ah, Rumania, Rumania."

"That sounds like a song, the way you said it."

"That's because it is a song, 'Rumania, Rumania,' one of my favorite Yiddish songs. Remember Mendel's cousin's klezmer band that tours Europe? That's one of the band's show-stoppers. It's a great, rollicking song, but you've got to have a great voice to sing it properly."

"So, sing me a song."

"Ah, a command performance for the queen, Malka Sandra?"

"Only if you want to. I don't want to embarrass you."

"Well. I have been known to do a Yiddish tune or two at weddings, after a shot or two of Slivovitz."

"Do you need Slivovitz to get your pipes warmed up now?"

"Kiss me."

Their lips met in a soft, sly way, passion with a promise of more kisses, more places.

She wiggled her bottom on his lap. "I think your stick is shifting into high gear."

"It has been for a while now. You keep hitting the gas pedal and revving my engine. And your headlights are shining right into my eyes," said Marshall.

"Perhaps you should close your eyes and use your hands on the headlights."

"How about I leave my eyes open and cover your headlights up?" With his hand he deftly – more skilled by the minute with these things! – unsnapped the front clasp of her bra. The sides fell free so her breasts were open to Marshall. She felt hot, under that first full view by a new lover. She turned her head, feeling shy of a sudden. He kissed her cheek and sensed her furious blush.

She leaned against him, her nipples finally free to press against his bare chest. His workman's hand was firm but gentle on her, testing her responses to his touch. He had already pleasured her through the bra, but now, flesh to flesh, she squirmed at the more intimate touch. 

"Like that?" he said, rolling her nipple between his callused fingers. "Or like this?" His index finger traced a lazy circle around her breast. "Or, maybe, this? I sure don't know what you like." He leaned her back against the couch and lowered his head to her breast, so he could kiss and then very deliberately lick around her nipple. Even as he licked he felt it grow harder against his lips. Sandra tossled his hair and arched her back to push her warm flesh against him.

"It ALL feels good, Marshall, all of it. You do it, I like it. You're making my headlights shine."

"I can tell. I can tell," he said, nuzzling her, his tongue and hands moving from one breast to another so smoothly that Sandra imagined she had two Marshall's pleasuring her. She felt totally covered, many tongues, many fingers for her delight.

"You like headlights. I'm a gearshift gal myself," she said, looking at him through half-closed eyes. She leaned forward and lightly pushed Marshall to his feet. "Stand up, you big hunk of Rumanian love." With a grin Marshall obeyed. Sandra secretly thrilled at his sudden turn from sexual aggressor to willing boy toy. What else would he do if she but asked, she wondered. 

"Now, I said I like good, flexible gear shifters, the kind I can really wrap my fingers around," she said, unzipping his pants and, with both hands, yanking them down to his ankles. "I'm looking for real responsiveness. You know what I mean?"

"Ah, I believe so. Stiff but easy to maneuver around the tight curves?" 

A delighted look spread on her face. "That's right, Marshall. If you've got the stick shift, I've got the tight, hot curves."

Impatiently she pulled his boxer shorts – with race cars on them! Who would have suspected such automotive devotion! – and his cock sprang out to her. She liked what she saw; "the mohel did an outstanding job," she joked, giving his cock a kiss on the tip.

"Done in total secrecy, on the eighth day," said Marshall. "My parents, the mohel, they could have all been arrested for doing so."

Her fingers formed a ring that she slipped over his cock and moved down the shaft. Marshall gulped and shuddered.

"Nice, nice, very good feel for the road," she said. "Needs some lubrication for extra responsiveness." His cock slowly disappeared between her lips. Her tongue darted up, down and around, then she slipped her head away. Saliva glistened from tip to base. Sandra slid her fingers lightly on the excruciatingly sensitive flesh. She felt so in control, the man in front of her, hands on her naked shoulders, his fingers tightening on her skin in response to her touch to him. "Yummy, high octane from this pump, I can tell," she marveled. 

"You had better downshift or we're going to have an oil spill all over the highway, dear," said Marshall. One hand massaged Sandra's hair. He loved the feel of it, so long and clean and pulled back in a pony tail. His other hand pressed the base of his cock, so it stretched out as far as possible. Sandra's hand brushed against his. Again, she kissed him, and she tasted a drop of pre-come on him. 

"We don't want that to happen before we have a lot more laps, do we?" she said. 

For a moment they rested. Sandra sat on the couch while Marshall knelt in front of her. His head rested on her thighs. The music looped, sinuous violin riffs ebbing and flowing with their lovemaking, pushing them here, pulling them. Sandra wondered if Marshall liked the music for its sensual drive. As a new song began, he kissed the top of one thigh. Then the other. He pushed his head, like an eager St. Bernard puppy with a new toy, between her knees. They parted easily, so he could kiss her tender inner thighs. Sandra leaned back on the couch and sighed. As he licked his hands played along her legs, one hand on her ankle, another pushing her hip, then seemingly a third reaching up to cup a breast from below. The racing posters in the office gave her a feeling of luxury and speed.

"The way you go off-road, Marshall," she sighed. 

"I like to get off the beaten path, head into the bush," he said between licks of the very top of her thigh. His tongue was agonizingly close to her cunt. "The bush, that's my destination now, in fact."

The yellow blouse, still lazily hanging from her shoulders, made her feel amazingly nude. The touch of the silk on her skin rippled every time she shifted. Bit by bit, she slid forward on the couch until she was almost flat against it. Moving between her legs, Marshall had shifted them far apart. His tongue finally grazed her cunt. She jumped.

"You OK? Too sensitive for that?" he asked, looking up, damp brown hair on his forehead.

"No, it just feels soooooo good," Sandra said. Her hands cupped her breasts, the lacy bra halves pushed to the side. Her thumbs flicked over the hard nipples. She wished she had some baby oil for Marshall to rub on them. Later. 

Her eyes closed. The room faded away, the music, the couch, everything but the soft, steady, unending lapping like ocean waves between her lips. Sandra opened her legs farther and planted her feet on Marshall's broad shoulders. With her pelvis tilted upward, Marshall slid his hands under her ass cheeks. His warm, strong fingers kneaded her rump. A wave of warmth swept Sandra, moving up from his hands and down from his tongue, forming a sphere of pulsing heat deep inside her. In her mind's eye, Sandra saw a spot of fire in dusky space, like a just-struck match. This interested her – every time Marshall's tongue flicked, the flame danced and grew. His hands spread her cheeks (oh she felt so wanton now, melting in the heat inside) and the flame expanded.

Marshall loved her taste. He had never made love in his office, but the time, the woman, everything was right. He liked the way she told him what to do, then her responses to him. The pressure of her feet on his shoulders urged him on. Those strong legs forced his head down, deeper inside her. Sandra's womanly aroma filled his nose, her cleft filled his vision. The black curly hairs were drenched with his licking and her own fluids. Scotchgard on the couch, he thought crazily, thank goodness for the Scotchgard.

"I'm starting to see, see the finish line," gasped Sandra. Her fingers and his fingers and his tongue all worked in unison. Lick, stroke, push, touch. The flame began to fill her vision, hot and dancing. 

"Smooth road down here, all the way," he said.

Then the flame erupted in a sheet and Sandra pushed down so hard on Marshall's shoulders that her ass lifted six inches off the couch. Marshall rose with her, his hands still cupping and opening her bottom. The hot center between Marshall's hands and tongue soared and burst, unleashing a firewave that raced up and down her synapses. Marshall felt her body arching, like a bow, and she cried a great sob of relief.

"Checked flag time, Sandra?" he said, as he licked around her lips, with little nipping kisses on her clit.

"Yes, I'm in the winner's circle for well-fucked women," she gasped. "But I'm ready for a victory lap. I'm not done yet. Stand up and get that beautiful cock in me. I can't stand just looking at it anymore."




Pages of a Day Ch. 02



Marshall stood and slid her sideways on the couch (Scotchgard, more vital than ever!). Her arms reached to him, hungry to pull him down. "In, in, in," she chanted. "I can't wait. Fuck me, be my shade-tree mechanic."

'Your pit crew's ready, ma'm," said Marshall. She looked adorable, her breasts hard and heaving, the ponytail cascading over her shoulder. "Vroom, vroom." With one foot on the floor and the other on the couch, he lowered his hips, closer, closer.

"Damn it, don't make me wait!" Sandra said, sounding awfully serious. "No teasing! I want you now!"

Marshall saw Sandra move a hand to her lips and spread them wide for him. He did not hesitate. With a single well-aimed thrust he slid into her. Slowly, so they could adjust to the sensation, he entered her, inch by delicious inch. 

"Ahhh, nice, so nice," she said. Sandra's arms looped around his neck. She possessively held him; he was a keeper, she thought, as she clutched him with her knees. "I feel so full."

"You are full, my dear Sandra. I'm filling you to the brim."

"You've got me turbocharged, you know that, right?"

"I can feel your oil slick dripping all over me."

"Just keep the production line moving." Marshall held her face with his hands. He kissed her pouty lips as he gave her an extra-firm thrust. "You like that?"

"I love it," she said. "Full throttle."

They moved together, entangled. The couch creaked slightly. Sandra felt herself getting warm and tingly again, even more than before, with Marshall's tongue dancing in her mouth and his cock gliding in and out like a warm fleshy piston in a moist cylinder. She was surprised out how light he felt. Such a husky man would make her feel crushed, but not Marshall. Even in his passion, he kept one foot on the floor so his full weight, 80 pounds more than Sandra's, would not make her uncomfortable. 

Sandra heard him gasping. "Are you OK, my love? Do you need to rest?"

"Yes, that's a good idea. I'll stay in you. I'm out of practice," said Marshall, feeling winded. 

"You're just getting into training. We'll do lots of practice laps," said Sandra. His cock pulsed inside her, even as he pushed lightly. Resting, Marshall turned her on more than many men in full battle cry. Something about him . . .

He slipped out and they lay side by side on the couch. Sandra's heart was racing, from lust, from love, from the sheer exuberance of being with this man.

"You know I think you're very special," she cooed. "I knew that the first time I met you."

"Yeah, you've been growing on me. Even when you were so pissed off about your glasses breaking, you were great. You're just, I don't know, I feel good around you," said Marshall. He kissed her nose. His breathlessness abated so he didn't feel so overwhelmed and clogged. His sense of Sandra, his hunger for her, sharpened. 

"We have a lot of things in common. Shall I list them?" said Sandra. His hairy chest rubbed her nipples like little fingers tickling her.

"I know one thing we both like. We were just doing it. Ready to resume?" he said. After a few minutes' rest, he wanted to devour her.

"Get out the green flag and let's go, Marshall Andretti," she said. 

Marshall arranged a couch pillow under her head. "More comfortable?" he said. 

"Yes, very comfortable. Now, where were we?"

"I had my cock in you, I believe, like . . . this," he said. The open legs welcomed him. Again he slipped in, all the way, until their pubic hair intertwined like Spanish moss. "Yes, here's where we were, and, let's see, I was fucking you slowly."

"You had your cock in me, and filled me up. You've got the high octane ready."

"You had already come, and I think you want to come again."

"I do, and I am. You're driving me meshuga the way you touch me."

"Ahh, my Sandra, you are just sex, from head to toe."

"And in between? Something you like there?" She pouted in an exaggerated way, like a little girl with hurt feelings.

"Every centimeter of you, you're just made for being kissed."

"Oh, I like that answer. You'll kiss every inch soon enough, right?" she said.

"Sandra, a girl who knows what she likes."

"You better believe it." She kissed him possessively and thought, again: a keeper.

The rest did wonders for Marshall's rhythm. He no longer had the flailing feeling, as if he were an engine about to fly apart from too much stress. Now, he had an eager but more controlled approach. Her wet scalloped lips welcomed him, kissed him, held him and sucked him in.

She saw his eyes scrunch tight. Marshall bit his lips. "My cunt is so wet and open for you Marshall, yes," she whispered. "It felt so good when you were sucking my nipples and my clit. I know you liked that."

"Mmm, sweet talker you are," he said. He was bearing down in her now.

"Your cock filled my mouth so good, so sweet such a sweet man, we're so right for each other," she whispered (planting ideas subliminally couldn't hurt!). "I can feel you getting bigger in me. You're filling me up great."

He sucked her ear lobe. "Be careful or you're going to give me ideas."

"I've had them already, my sweet. Think of all the things we can do."

"In your car, in my office . . ." he gasped.

"Mmm, in my ass," she whispered. "I want to be such a dirty girl for my man."

As she expected, Sandra's sexy whispering pushed Marshall's button and boosted him to turbospeed. And the harder and hot he got, the more turned on Sandra became. Their ragged breathing was a chorus of arousal. They passed their sexual craziness back and forth. "Oh, Marshall, fuck me hold me,"

"Sandra, I'm going to fill you up, right now. Hold me tight," he moaned.

"I am, my lover, I am. Fill 'er up."

She felt his breathing stop, suddenly. With her arms around his neck and back, Sandra held on with a fevered grip. The hot ball was flaring in side her, forced on by the great plunging drive of Marshall's hips. He no longer thrust in and out, but rigid and bursting, he pushed all the way in and kept pushing back and forth inside, inching her up the couch. The eruption of his cock felt like lava to Marshall and Sandra, almost too hot to bear, every nerve centered on their connection, his cock reaching deep in her, Sandra's muscles gripping and squeezing him like a fist as she came. 

Finally, they were gasping and wheezing like two athletes after a long, hard run. Marshall leaned back on the couch. Sandra, tangled still in her blouse and bra, cuddled against his chest. "Let's get those clothes off you. Be naked against me," said Marshall, pulling the wrinkled remnants off her.

"Great idea. I want to feel all of my skin against you." She felt totally free and naked against him. Sandra curled her legs up on his lap. 

"I'm speechless. That was amazing," he said. "I don't know what to say."

She put a finger to his lips. "Shaa, no talking if you don't want to. I'm limp. Let's hold each other and get our breath back."

So, they did. The mall had closed. The music on the stereo had switched to a classical symphony, lulling, a sonic river meandering through sun-dappled fields, butterflies darting among the water droplets. Sandra curled against his chest and kissed him. She shuddered, still reeling from her orgasms. The lights in the shop were very low. Marshall's warm hands stroked her hair, her cheek, the curve of skin from her shoulder blade to her forearm. She was melting into him. Her eyelids felt heavy. She felt as if she had been turned inside out and then turned again.

"So dreamy. I can't stay awake," she said, drifting away.

"Shluf, shluf, mein kind. Sleep, sleep, my child," he said in endearing Yiddish that reminded Sandra of her grandmother. "No rule says you need to stay awake."

"Came so hard . . . you take the checkered flag . . . my lover Marshall . . . keep holding me . . . never let go," she whispered. He could tell her lights were dimming, dimming, out.

She was asleep on him, weightless and warm as a downy kitten. Their mingled juices dripped out of Sandra and down his thigh. The liquid touch reminded him of their new passion, how far they had come. Marshall shook his head. Amazing that we found each other, he mused; Who knew? And, of course, who knows?

"I'll never let you go, my Sandra," he said, then closed his eyes. He could just hear Sandra, asleep, whispering, "Choo-choo, choo-choo."