Thinking About Dad

  Coming home early

  reminds me I’d better

  give him a heads-up.

  First I click up the furnace.

  As always, it’s freezing

  inside when I get home.

  “Get comfy,” I tell Monica,

  “while I call my dad and

  tell him about the car.

  Otherwise, he’d probably

  freak out if he saw

  it in the driveway.”

  Okay. But do we really

  have to eat pizza rolls?

  Is there anything fresh

  in the ’frigerator?

  I can cook, you know.

  “Not sure. But my fridge

  is your fridge. If you find

  something to whip up, I’ll

  eat it. I trust you know how.”

  Bueno, pero primero . . .

  Yes, but first she positions

  herself so close to me there

  are barely molecules between

  us. She lifts up on her toes

  to match my height, and . . .

  I’ve Dreamed About This Kiss

  For days.

  For weeks.

  For months.

  And, just maybe,

  for the entire part

  of my life

  that had any

  clear notion

  of what a kiss

  could—or

  should—be.

  Oh.

  My.

  Serious.

  God.

  Our mouths fuse.

  Tongues converge.

  But there’s more.

  So much more.

  And, yes, there’s longing,

  upwelling from places

  we’ve yet to explore,

  but that’s not the genesis.

  Because the bond between

  us begins heart to heart.

  This, My Third Kiss

  Takes my literal breath

  away. I so want to tell her

  I love her, but I know if I do

  I’ll jinx us, and this duality

  we’ve merged into.

  But Monica doesn’t hesitate

  to declare, Te amo más que

  la vida misma. Tú eres

  mi amiga y mi corazón.

  She loves me more than

  life itself. I am her friend

  and her heart. That draws

  my smile. “A chef and poet,

  too. How lucky am I?”

  Luck isn’t random.

  It’s something you create.

  You call your dad and I’ll

  go see what I can create

  in the kitchen. I’m starving.

  I watch her go, try not

  to think too much about

  where the rest of this night

  might lead us. Temptation

  is a powerful force. Succumbing

  to it scares the hell out of me.

  It Also Excites Me

  Because, as scared

  as I am that Dad will find

  out, and try to beat

  that sex demon out of me,

  or disown me for it,

  or both,

  the need to embrace

  this part of myself

  is escalating.

  Lately, my dreams

  are inhabited

  by lust-infused images.

  Feminine.

  Masculine.

  Both.

  Right. Left.

  Up. Down.

  Over.

  Beneath.

  Sometimes I wake

  to find myself touching

  the most intimate

  parts of my body,

  satiating a hunger

  so deep, so vital,

  feeding it is integral

  to my well-being.

  The sensation is incredible,

  but I could never find

  the courage

  to do it consciously.

  My programming insists

  it’s wrong.

  Wrong.

  Wrong.

  So why

  does it feel

  so right?

  Right?

  Right?

  Now I need

  to know what it’s like

  with someone else.

  Someone I trust.

  Someone I care about,

  and believe they care about me.

  I think it could be tonight.

  I’m terrified.

  Thrilled.

  Determined.

  But First Things First

  I locate my phone, dial Zelda’s number

  and, still caught up in the tempest

  of carnal confusion, when Gabe answers,

  a serious outbreak of guilt erupts.

  It feels almost as if he’s been peeking

  in the windows. “Oh, hey. Is Dad there?”

  No. He and Aunt Zelda ran into town

  to pick up some groceries. They should

  be back soon, though. Should I take

  a message or do you want to try his cell?

  “I should probably talk to him.

  You won’t believe this, but—”

  Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.

  Hillary Grantham gave you her car.

  I just found out myself less than

  an hour ago. “How do you know?”

  Her father told me. I didn’t get a car,

  by the way, but he did offer to pay

  for bodywork, paint, and an all-new

  interior for the GTO. Pretty cool, huh?

  I agree that it’s totally cool, then

  ask, “So, Dad knows about the car?”

  Actually, yeah, he does. He answered

  the door when Mr. Grantham came by.

  Oh, I got to meet Hillary’s aunt, too.

  Believe it or not, she’s kind of attractive.

  Why does the remark sting a little?

  “Is that so? Well, maybe on the outside.

  Anyway, what did Dad say about

  the car? Was he pissed?” Bet he was.

  Not that I could tell. He was nice

  enough to the Granthams, and after

  they left, all I heard him say was,

  “Huh. Can you imagine that?”

  That doesn’t sound too bad, but

  I’ll have to wait until he gets home

  to know for sure. Dad’s squirrelly.

  “So, are you going to fix up the GTO?”

  Does a duck quack? Hell yeah!

  It’s like an early Christmas present.

  I Tell Him

  A gently used car

  is like making up

  for every Christmas

  present, plus

  every birthday

  present, I never got.

  There

  were

  lots

  of

  them.

  Too often there

  wasn’t enough

  money for Dad

  to buy them.

  Of course,

  there was always

  enough cash

  to cover his booze

  and cigarettes.

  Once I was old

  enough to figure

  that out,

  disappointment

  swelled into anger.

  Not that it mattered.

  My silent seething

  rarely bothered Dad.

  The few times

  I mentioned how awful

  it made me feel to be

  ignored on the days

  other kids celebrated

  with parties and gifts,

  Dad would shrug.

  Sorry. I’m not much,

  and I admit that.

  But I’m all you’ve

  got, aren’t I?

  It’s me or foster care.

  Take your pick.

  Besides
, you know

  you love your old man.

  Despite all the bad,

  I did love him. Still do,

  though sometimes

  I can’t figure out why.

  Maybe I’ve always

  been desperate

  to love anyone at all.

  I Don’t Offer Gabe

  That extended

  addendum.

  We decide to hang

  out on Sunday,

  designated football

  day at Zelda’s.

  He wants me to help

  him pick out

  a classic GTO

  paint color,

  plus complementary

  interior options.

  I ask if he’ll give

  the Focus a once-over,

  not that I think

  the Granthams

  would keep it in less

  than perfect mechanical shape.

  I just want to spend time

  with Gabe.

  Because, whatever does

  or doesn’t happen

  with Monica after this,

  I

  care about

  him, too.

  The First Thing

  That happens with Monica

  is dinner. I can’t believe

  what she’s put together

  with the meager ingredients

  we have available.

  On the menu:

  Homemade mac

  (unburied from the cupboard)

  and cheddar cheese

  (one of the few things in the fridge)

  with baby peas and pearl onions

  (found in a freezer drawer).

  She even digs up bacon

  to add, crumbled,

  to the main dish.

  It needs to bake thirty or forty

  minutes. She slides the casserole

  into the preheated oven, then

  turns back to me. What did

  your dad say about the car?

  I relate what Gabe told me.

  “So, things could either be

  A-OK, or totally not. You never

  know where Dad’s concerned.

  At least the car won’t be a surprise.”

  She sets the oven timer. We’ve got

  a little time. What you want to do?

  I Hesitate

  But not for long, because if I lose

  my nerve now, who knows when

  I might find it again? I take her hand,

  lead her into the living room,

  notice we both still have our shoes

  on, something we’d better remedy.

  “Shoes by the door in case Dad

  decides to surprise us. Besides,

  socks are sexier.” Did I just say that?

  Monica laughs. I never heard

  that one before, and you haven’t

  seen my socks. They could be gross.

  They’re not. They’re fluffy pink and

  totally clean, at least until she has

  to walk around the house in them.

  Vacuuming is my Saturday job,

  so there’s almost a week’s worth

  of dust on the floor. Oh well.

  “Okay, this is the very first time

  I’ve ever asked anyone this, but

  you wanna make out or what?”

  Pensé que nunca lo preguntarías.

  She thought I’d never ask, and

  before I can change my mind

  she pulls me over to the couch,

  gently sits me down. Oh, wait.

  She goes over to the window, closes

  the blinds. This is a private show.

  Wouldn’t want your neighbors

  to see. Recostarte, novia. Lie back.

  I like that she’s taking charge,

  mostly because I have no idea

  what to do next. I close my eyes,

  accept her lead. It begins with

  the expected kiss, except this one

  moves quickly beyond invitation,

  all the way into the danger zone.

  Just as I think my heart will pound

  out of my chest, the tip of her tongue

  traces the outline of my mouth

  before her lips kiss the excited pulse

  beneath my right ear, then move

  to the matching throb under the left.

  When she kisses down my neck,

  to the small cleft between my breasts,

  my instinct is to protest. No!

  she commands. ¡Déjame hacer

  esto! She says to let her do this.

  And “This”

  Might be something

  I’ve thought about,

  dreamed about, but

  had no clear idea about

  how it would look,

  how it would feel,

  how it would happen to me.

  How it looks is beautiful.

  When she rises up over me,

  I can see she is a creature

  not of this world, an angel—

  half-dark, half-light—fallen

  to earth from the autumn sky.

  Flawless but for the barely

  perceptible blemishes

  I am privileged to see.

  How it feels is unlike

  anything my imagination

  could have invented.

  She fumbles the mechanics

  of clothing and positions,

  but I don’t mind because

  if she isn’t practiced

  we can learn together;

  there is discovery to share.

  Driven by Instinct

  Fueled by solid lust

  we are skin to skin

  tongue to tongue

  and tongue to skin

  She kisses in circles

  the arc of my neck

  the curves of my breasts

  the smaller circumferences

  of my nipples.

  She licks in lines

  tracking contours

  down my right side

  back up my left and, finally,

  straight from chin to belly button.

  She touches tentatively

  in lines and circles

  show me what you like

  gaining momentum

  building intensity

  She nudges me

  closer and closer

  right up against the brink

  and, no way to hold back,

  pushes me over the cliff.

  It’s one hell of a trip.

  Crash Landing

  The buzzer goes off in the kitchen.

  I smile. “Does that mean I made

  my eight-second ride?”

  Monica looks confused.

  No, that means our dinner

  is done. You must be hungry?

  “Starving. But what about you?’

  I reach out and stroke the cleft

  that would be cleavage if there

  was more flesh there, not that

  I’d prefer it. “I think I owe you

  one.” I wink and she laughs,

  but shakes her head. Later.

  We’ve got lots of time, not like

  the mac and cheese, which will burn.

  I watch her straighten up

  and go into the kitchen, but

  take my time following her.

  Everything between us has

  changed. This thing we have

  is more serious now, and while

  that’s not necessarily bad,

  I wonder if Monica and I have

  been irrevocably altered, too.

  Maya

  I’ve been at Fort Hood almost four months now. It’s been a long, hot, boring summer, nothing much to do but make plans for the baby. She’s due in about a week, and I want everything perfect before she gets here.

  The house is a small two-bedroom, with a cute little kitchen and one decent-size bathroom, plenty for two adult
s and one infant. It’s not very modern, and looks almost identical to the one next door, but what do I care, as long as the appliances work and the toilet flushes? That’s critical, since I have to pee way more often than anyone should. I even get up a couple of times at night. It’s so annoying.

  Jason thinks it’s funny. “Maybe we should be buying adult diapers, instead of stocking up on the baby kind. Do they make maternity diapers?”

  Ha-ha.

  I definitely need maternity clothes. I’ve kept my weight pretty well in check, but over these last few weeks Casey has grown exponentially. My stomach is stretched to the max.

  Jason makes fun of that, too. “Girl, you get any bigger I’ll have to put you out to pasture till you drop that foal.”

  Country-boy humor.

  Speaking of country, Casey seems to love Garth Brooks and Clint Black. Play those boys, and she gets to kicking so hard I’m sure she must be line dancing. Thinking like that makes me homesick for Tati, who taught me most of the moves I know.

  Tati calls to talk a couple times a week. I’d call her, but Jason gets mad. “What do you think I am, made of money? We can barely afford the phone bill without long distance charges.” He’s right, money is tight. My calculations neglected to factor in things like baby furniture and clothes. Most we managed to pick up “gently used,” but even so it was an investment.

  Our finances make things like movies impossible, too, except the ones we watch on TV. If it wasn’t for the library, my brain would be mush by now. I’ve tried to make friends with the neighbor ladies, but theirs is a tight-knit sorority. Seems they’re not looking for new members.

  I wish I could visit Tati, but I don’t have access to a car and even if I did, I don’t have a driver’s license. I’m going to get one, though. I’ve been practicing. Jason won’t let me drive, but when Tati visits—she’s been out here five times—she puts me behind the wheel of her Malibu, with her standing joke. “Let’s go cruising for soldiers.”

  They’re not hard to find. But we’re not really looking. Even if I wanted to cheat on Jason, what man in his right mind would want to have sex with me? It would kind of be like having sex with the baby, too. The idea is cringe-worthy.

  Truthfully, I have zero desire to even look at a penis, let alone touch one. But Jason insists. “I’m your husband, aren’t I? What good is a wife who won’t please her man? The least you can do is jack me off.”

  Actually, it’s the most I can do.

  Especially considering how hard it’s been to get Jason to cooperate with me. It’s not like I ask for much, but one thing I insisted on was him taking natural childbirth classes with me. I practically had to beg him to be my coach.

  “Coach? What does that mean? Feed you plays?”

  “Sort of, I guess. You stay by my side. Encourage me. Remind me to breathe, that sort of thing.”