Message-ID: X-Archived-At: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: MyFrThAl@aol.com Subject: NEW: Mark Aster: Light Like Butter (no explicit sex) Light Like Butter by Mark Aster There was a crack in the blinds, and the early sun shone in, thick and yellow as butter. Bright and heavy, the line of light moved up over the foot of the bed, onto Alex's body where he lay on his back asleep. The fine hairs on his thighs blazed, the down on his stomach, the skin of his throat. When the sun touched his face, he sighed deeply and his eyelids fluttered. Twelve years before, the light had been just that color as he sat with his bear Fritz, watching his Dad and his brothers playing football in the meadow. The boys were big and blond, louder and stronger and much older than Alex, and he adored them utterly. Suddenly Petey had surged over and scooped him up, tossing him to Frank. "Alex is the ball!" Petey yelled, and Alex screamed in terror and delight and hung onto Fritz, burying his face in the bear's fur as the big boys' hands gripped him and tossed him and dropped him. Then he was on his father's shoulder, breathless and limp, his father laughing and hugging him, and his father's smell filling his head as he was carried inside, already half asleep. That had been evening, not morning. Alex opened his eyes in the sunny bedroom, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He stood and stretched, and the muscles of his calves made graceful curves in the sunbeam. He looked at nothing for a moment, then sighed again and went into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he came down the back stairs and into the diner. He was wearing black jeans, a leather jacket over a white t-shirt, and carrying a large duffel bag. Dan saw him and came out from behind the counter. "On your way?" "Bus in half an hour." "You okay?" Dan stood close to him, not quite touching. Alex reached out and touched the back of Dan's hand. "I'm okay." Dan took his hand and squeezed the fingers gently. "You take care of yourself." "I will." And he pulled the hand toward him, and he kissed Dan very softly on the mouth. Dan's other hand squeezed his shoulder, and then he was out the door and on the street, moving down the sidewalk. The bus left on time, half full. Alex settled his duffel onto the seat beside him and sat looking out the window. Fifteen minutes later, at the last stop in the city, a boy and a girl about his own age took the seat in front of him. She was small and dark, elegantly curved in a tight knit dress. The boy's hands touched her face, her shoulders, her breasts, and she looked into his eyes and pursed her lips. Alex thought of Becca Richter lying back on the couch in the basement, her hair loose around her head, her body slim and rounded, beautiful as a statue or a sunset. He had touched her where she'd told him to, and she had amazed him and confused him. The bus pulled onto the highway and accelerated smoothly; the long constant rumble came up from the wheels and into the seats. "Have you talked to Rebecca Richter lately, Alex?" his mother had asked. Lying on the red rug in the big dark living room, he hadn't replied. His father had answered for him. "Don't nag at the boy, Gerta. A man needs to take his time. No need to hurry, eh boy?" His father had smiled at him, and Alex had tried to smile back. But there'd been that thing in his father's face again, something puzzled and angry and deep, and he'd looked away. Alex took a book from his bag and turned the pages as the highway rolled by. The girl put her head down on the boy's shoulder and dozed; the boy looked around the bus with a bright selfish smile. Around noon, the bus stopped for lunch. Alex bought a sandwich and a soda and walked around and around the bus, thinking of the dark living room and his father's grey hair. He changed buses in Springfield; there was a two-hour wait. The benches in the waiting room were new, but the smells and the sounds of the place were just the same. He'd had a donut from the same lunch counter two years ago, on the way out to school. Alex sat for a long time, watching the numbers roll by on the big electric board. Then he picked up his bag and walked out into the crowd. In a corner of the station, express men unloaded dozens of identical square boxes from a van into the long low cargo bay of a waiting bus. Alex leaned against a post and watched them. The shadows were soft and grey. The letter had been a bad idea. It had seemed like a good solution at the time, an easy way to get it over with. He had tried to be gentle about it, not to say too much. But he had just fallen in love for the first time, and too much of the joy must have slipped through. "Dear Mom and Dad, "I'm writing this letter to tell you some things about myself that I think you ought to know. I know it might not be just what you want to hear, but I hope that you can understand..." He had expected a letter or a phone call, maybe even a visit. But instead the boxes had started coming. No note inside, just typed addresses on boxes of clothes, books, his old toys, all smelling of home, all torn out and sent silently to his dorm. Fritz had been at the bottom of the last box, and he'd stood holding the crumpled old bear, and he'd cried. His mother had called, finally, two weeks later, when his father was at a lodge meeting. He'd cried again, and so had she. "I'm sure he could forgive you Alex, I'm sure he could." "Mom -- Mom, this isn't something to forgive." And then she hadn't called again, until last night. The local bus left ten minutes late. It was smaller and noisier than the big interstate liner, but it smelled better. There was a bus stop right at the bottom of the drive; Alex remembered sitting on the big rock and watching the buses go by. Usually no one was getting on or off, so the bus wouldn't stop, but the drivers that knew him would honk the horn. As the bus started up the hill, Alex pulled the signal cord. The sun, almost at the horizon, shone in through the windows. The bus slowed and stopped, the brakes hissing and squealing. Out the window Alex saw his father's old yellow dog sitting by the edge of the drive, panting. The dogs, his mother had said, had howled like banshees when his father died. As if they knew. The doors rattled open and Alex went down the stairs holding his bag. The sun thick and yellow on his face, he walked slowly up the drive, walking home. Light Like Butter by Mark Aster The End -- Story Submission: Moderator Contact: Newsgroup FAQ: Archive site (could be better):