Message-ID: <20562eli$9903140451@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: pleasecain@aol.com (PleaseCain) Subject: {Hopper} Seven A. M., 1948 by PleaseCain Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19990313235630.19237.00000493@ng09.aol.com> A (praise be!) short sketch based on Edward Hopper's painting "Seven A. M., 1948" (http://www.art.com/artgallery/default.asp?artist=Hopper,+Edward&adid=YA9e dhopper) Hats off, Mat. Copyright 1999 PleaseCain@aol.com -- Commercial use prohibited without author's consent. Removal of this notice in any case is prohibited. "Seven A. M., 1948" by PleaseCain@aol.com Boys are so funny about their dickies. Just look at them and all of a sudden they're pulling them out with faces like TV magicians. And there they are like a row of candy bars, like toadstools bobbing, waiting for toads. It's embarrassing. The stairs creaked and Liesl stopped and rolled over. She stared from the covers, absentmindedly wiping her fingers on the sheet as the footsteps climbed the remaining stairs and approached on the hardwood outside. Opa leaned in the open doorway and tapped the doorjamb twice with the newspaper. "Good morning, princess," he whispered and walked away. Slipping out of bed, she followed him, peeking in on her mom in the next room before turning in the bathroom to rinse her hands and mouth and the sleepy bugs. The smell of bacon hung in the kitchen as she sauntered to her chair. She sat with her feet on the chair, knees to her chest, and pulled the large tee-shirt over her legs to her ankles. Her forehead rested on her knees, eyes closed. "Here is what you need." A mug clattered on the table. She watched him prepare her coffee. Three scoops of sugar from the tiny spoon with the ceramic Salzburg inlay, stirred with milk to a creamy tan. She had watched a hundred times, knew the formula, and yet it never tasted as rich as it did in this seat, each time he made coffee for her. It lay in his stirring, his manipulation of spoon and ingredients, just so, then twice tapping the spoon against the edge before he nudged it along--always twice, a club of two, one for you, one for me, ting-ting, our secret. Ever since she was little, their secret, those clandestine cups of coffee. Of course, Liesl thought, there was no need to whisper because they both knew from the way her mother slept that she wouldn't be discovering them, she hadn't even undressed. She knew he enjoyed their secret even more than she did, just as he enjoyed big breakfasts, and bringing her heaping plates of hot food. Omelets. He diced tomatoes, onions, peppers, sausage (homemade), mushrooms, ham, salami, venison, whatever struck his fancy, and always with plenty of cheese. And because she was such poor company in the morning, he would take it upon himself to fill the aural emptiness; he spoke more during those early hours than any other time, although the rest of the town only knew him as a good listener, which wasn't bad for business either. Preparing their meal, he might even provide a soundtrack, humming off-key in the back of his throat, because he knew it sounded broken, and yet the tune wasn't completely for himself: it belonged to some past story and some long-ago face, and it belonged to his granddaughter. And so he grinded the forgotten song, serenading her -- perhaps she was listening or might ask about the song, probably not -- and the new day, which was almost as pretty, and himself, while he worked, and his busy knife, rapping in staccato on the cutting board, an extension of his arm really, accomplishing with his fingers a precise and beneficial dance. Through the rattatatting and earnest yelping, he stood perfectly still but for a repetitive twitch in his forearm, its muscle hard like a knotted treeroot. An arm so different from Bo's; it was featured, powerful, carpeted with blond hair. Bo's are supple and long, stretching to fine fingers. Bo's muscles are distinct like shoes slipped under skin, with broad shoulders and a few prominent freckles on his chest. There are whisps of black hair there, yes, but more interesting are his nipples, prominent for a boy, coffee-dark and extended like tee-pees. Stomach muscle slopes into a perfect-circle bellybutton, dark as the thatch of hair curling into his jeans. She could stare at that for hours at the spillway. She'd let him. It figures he is in high school. Her age, Bryce is cute, with his curly blond hair. A little awkward, but very nice. He always gave her pencils in fifth grade. Maybe him. His older brother had even curlier hair. He got sent away, probably because Angela's sister was pregnant. Alice said it was rape. And to think that Angela always said that if you did it you wouldn't be able to have babies. Now she's trying like hell to never have babies. Since they won't wear rubbers, Alice figures the best way not to get in trouble is to learn good blowjobs, except you have to swallow too or they would want more. Right before, you have to suck their dick all the way back and kind of open your throat. "What will you do today?" Opa set two steaming plates on the table and went for silverware. Liesl shrugged inside her taut cotton tent and mumbled under her breath the vague intonation of "I don't know." "You don't know? How old are you, 'I don't know'?" She didn't look up. "That was the worst thing your mother could do, taking you out from swimming." "I know, Opa, I know," she exhaled. "You help me in the store today, and tonight we'll see a movie. Good?" "Good." "Next Sunday, we'll drive to Madison. The college has a beautiful pool. I'll show you." Liesl listened quietly, lest she trigger the University of Wisconsin lecture about grades and swimming and a scholarship and you will be the first one in the family with a college degree. She was silent several moments, then, to change the topic, blurted, "Can I bring Alice?" He froze, holding the grape jelly an inch above the tabletop. "Who is Alice?" "A friend of mine. She was in the store last Saturday." "A friend of yours. You want to bring a friend." The jar rested on the table. "Sure, you can bring your friend." He sat, and reached with a broad finger to stroke the tender ridge of her cheek; she closed her eyes and smiled. The minute tab of a callous scratched her softly. The store clock chimed below, muted through the floor. "Now sit up big. Let's eat." Cain's stories may be found at http://members.aol.com/pleasecain deirdre's stories are archived at Transom: http://members.aol.com/deirarchiv -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----