Patchwork People Chapter II The Good Man Hard to Find
- 2 years ago
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Patchwork People VI: The Perfect Pie Crust. free porn video
VI. The perfect pie crust.
The windows were dark, covered with condensation. Inside, at the kitchen
table, Marcia pressed the heel of her hand against the back of the
santoku knife and cleaved the apple in half. Fuji, this time. There were
five other apples prepared on the cutting board, skinned an unearthly
greenish-white, already tarnishing. She was making an apple pie for the
Blue Cat.
"I still don't understand," Grace had said. "What you've got against
birthdays. What's so terrible about people saying 'happy birthday' to
you once a year? Honoring you with a cupcake and a candle and a handful
of balloons?"
"It doesn't seem anything to celebrate. At least not in my case. It's
just a rather grim reminder."
"Of what? That you're getting older? That doesn't have to be such a
tragedy, you know. Better than the alternative."
"More like a reminder of how much of my life was wasted. Of what's been
lost."
"Oh sweetie. That's surely looking at the glass half-empty. You're not
taking a moment for granted now. That's all anyone can do, no matter
what their past. As for the 'lost years.' Well, they weren't wasted
since they were the years that got you from there to here."
Outside there was a prolonged rumbling. Thunder? Or just a passing jet?
Marcia cubed the apple she'd been cutting and threw the pieces into a
stew pot. She mixed in the brown sugar, butter, flour, and chopped nuts.
Then she stirred in the spices: clove, nutmeg, and cinnamon. She waited
for the contents of the pot to boil and turned down the flame. Added
some water. In a matter of minutes, the little kitchen was filled with
an aroma almost as delicious and satisfying as a wedge of the finished
pie itself.
While she waited for the compote to simmer down, she went to the fridge
and removed the ball of cling-wrapped dough she'd prepared a half-hour
earlier. She'd already taped the wax paper to the wooden table-top. She
ladled flour and sat the grapefruit-sized ball of dough in the center,
pressing it down with the heel of her hands, working it into a flat
disk.
She flipped the dough over, dipping her fingers into the bag of flour,
and liberally dusting the exposed surface of the dough to prevent it
from sticking. Then, taking up the rolling pin, she ironed out the dough
into a disk a little larger in circumference than the baking dish she
planned to use. Finally, very carefully, she lifted the dough from the
wax paper and laid it into the pan, tamping it down with her fingertips.
It wasn't hard, despite what people thought, to make a perfect pie
crust. Plenty of shortening, don't work it too much, those were the
usual rules of thumb. But the real trick was not to expect it to be
perfect. You had to accept that some patching, pruning, and stretching
were going to be necessary. Cutting away the extra dough from along the
top with a sharp paring knife, Marcia set about doing just that. It
would all bake into what looked like a flawless whole, heal itself in
the oven as it baked. But for now, before the filling was poured in, it
looked somewhat Frankensteinian, like a patched and plastered wall
hastily covered in whitewash.
Before the message come up on her phone, Marcia hadn't even known for
sure if Phoebe even had her number anymore. The messages she had sent to
Phoebe had gone unanswered, until she'd finally gotten the unspoken
message that Phoebe didn't want to hear from her anymore.
How long it took, how hard it was to accept that! We'll do anything for
the people we love, won't we? We swear it. Except, of course, leave them
alone, even when they beg us to do just--and only--that.
The last thing Marcia wanted was for Phoebe to feel stalked by some
insane, needy parent. So she stopped writing, stopped calling. She
figured that if the girl needed or wanted her she'd make contact. Marcia
had made it clear she'd always welcome hearing from her. What more could
she do?
At least, Marcia hoped, that was the message that Phoebe had taken away.
For all she knew, Phoebe might never have received her messages. She
might have changed her number, or even blocked Marcia from her account
altogether, deflecting her messages into space. Marcia's offers of love
and support might have been bounced off a distant satellite. They might
still be traveling through the stars, adrift beyond the Milky Way,
traversing empty infinite stretches of blackness. Marcia could imagine
one day, thousands of light-years from now, when her messages might be
decoded as meaningless clicks by an advanced race of alien beings.
She felt as if she'd been separated from her daughter by just such a
time and distance. They had each traveled so far, at least in relative
terms, in their own lives. Phoebe through her teenage years; Marcia from
one gender to another. Which one of them was the alien? What would it be
like to see each other again? Would they even recognize each other?
Could they find a language with which to communicate?
It was a terrible thought to have but Marcia couldn't help having it.
She almost wished that Phoebe hadn't contacted her at all.
No, be honest, she told herself. You do wish it. You wish she hadn't
kept your number. You wish your message had never been received. As much
as you've missed her, as much as her absence tore a hole in your life
that could never be filled, you wish your daughter never wanted to see
you again. You wish that you could start a new life as if there'd never
been a past.
Don't you? Be honest.
Yes I do.
Outside, it began to rain.
* * *
Author note: I plan to publish "Patchwork People" in its entirety in
weekly installments here on Fictionmania. In the meantime, the complete
novel is currently available as an Amazon Kindle ebook for $2.99.
For more of my writings, drawings, erotica, and photos please visit my
blog Sissypop!
sissyforlife(dot)blogspot(dot)com.
Kierra
- 04.02.2022
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