Patchwork People Chapter II The Good Man Hard to Find
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Patchwork People XV: Breakfast Club. free porn video
XV. Breakfast club.
Sunlight poured through the checkered curtains of the kitchen window.
The sliced bananas and butter were simmering on the stovetop. Marcia
added to them spices she'd already toasted--cinnamon, nutmeg, clove.
Together they filled the carriage house like incense. This was the
Church of Home and she was performing the celebration of Good Morning.
She measured out a half-cup of white flour and poured it into the mixing
bowl. In another bowl she whisked three eggs, a quarter cup of milk, and
a tablespoon of sugar.
She stopped at the stove to give the bananas a quick stir. She was
humming as she worked without realizing it and, when she did realize it,
she smiled.
How good it could feel to be alive.
She had already decided on the panakuchen for their first breakfast
together. A giant pancake is what it really was, but it seemed so much
more exotic, baked as it was right in the frying pan, served family-
style, sprinkled with powdered sugar and cut into wedges. Perfect, she
thought, to celebrate their first breakfast together.
For Marcia, every morning since her transition was a celebration. A new
day in her new life: a gift. She'd promised herself that she would never
take her second chance for granted. Not a single day, not a single hour
if she could help it. And, for the most part, she'd kept her promise.
Breakfast was the feast that kicked the day off; it wasn't just the
"most-important-meal-of-the-day." It was--it should be--a thanksgiving
of joy. Each day was literally an opportunity, an invitation to live
life to the fullest. If that was sometimes a little too much to handle,
then at least each day gave you a chance to do something new, something
enjoyable, something to make that particular day special. It didn't have
to be anything earth-shatteringly important either. A trip to the
library, a walk through the park, a new recipe could be all that it
took. For Marcia, such a homely notion of happiness wasn't just a
platitude you read stitched into a tea-cozy and then promptly forgot in
the hustle-bustle of real life. It was, in all its humility and
simplicity, the very essence of a life well-lived.
She poured the batter into the frying pan. With a wooden spoon, she
loosely swirled in the banana-spice mixture. Then she added a fistful
of chopped walnuts and turned down the gas under the frying pan. A few
minutes later, when she saw bubbles begin to form in the batter along
the edges of the cake, she turned the flame off altogether and removed
the pan from the stovetop and placed in on the middle rack of the pre-
heated oven. She set the timer for twelve minutes and hit the countdown
button.
There, that's done, she said to herself.
She wondered if she should fry up some bacon. She kept it in the house
for Walt. Did Phoebe even eat bacon? She decided to wait until her
daughter got up. She could ask her then. There'd be plenty of time to
fry up a couple of strips while she reheated the cake.
From the looks of it, Marcia might have to wait a while yet. Eleven a.m.
came and went and there was no sight of Phoebe, not so much as a sound,
except for the blare of the television that she'd evidently left on all
night, which now came pouring from the direction of her room.
Marcia poured herself another cup of coffee and realized that she'd
better make another pot. She'd been up early, not knowing when Phoebe
was used to waking. She wanted to have things ready just in case. She
wanted to greet Phoebe with the warm, nourishing, kitchen smells of a
real home. For all her failings as father, Marcia wanted to show Phoebe
how much better she was suited to be a mother. Her style of nurturing,
her ability to parent came to her naturally as a woman. Would Phoebe
understand and appreciate that? Or would it just seem weird to her? It
was a question that, among so many others, had kept Marcia up most of a
restless night.
Still, she wasn't the least bit tired.
Anticipation and adrenaline made the coffee she was drinking habitually
unnecessary. She was anxious and excited about the day ahead, but
dreading it, too. She wanted it to be as perfect as possible, knowing in
advance that perfection was impossible, it's lure sure to conceal the
hook of disappointment. She'd already arranged with Grace to take the
day off from the Blue Cat. But Grace told her that wasn't nearly enough.
She insisted that Marcia take at least the next three.
"I can get on without you for that long. Give your daughter your
undivided attention. She needs this time with you much more than I do.
And, just as importantly, you need it, too."
Marcia thanked her, promised to do what Grace had said, but she had
already decided she'd drop by the Blue Cat as often as possible over the
next several days to help out wherever she could. She also wanted to
introduce Grace to her daughter. Who knew, Phoebe might even be
interested in hanging out at the shop and helping out a little herself.
It was, after all, at least in Marcia's humble and admittedly biased
opinion, the most interesting place in town.
So far, though, their first day together seemed to be placed on
indefinite hold. Whatever was left of the morning to celebrate had
dwindled away as it was now approaching noon. Phoebe had, in fact,
emerged from her room, albeit briefly, at one point. Just when Marcia
was seriously considering that the girl might have stolen away in the
middle of the night. But Phoebe's fleeting appearance had by no means
indicated that she'd risen for the day. Instead, pale-faced and
somnolent, she'd gotten up only long enough to shuffle to the bathroom
and back to her room, looking like a zombie in a bathrobe.
To Marcia's insufferably cheery "good morning," there had been nothing
more than an inaudible grunt. To her further inquiry as to whether
Phoebe was ready for breakfast, a similar sound issued forth, which, if
rendered into English, could probably best be translated as, "are you
fucking out of your mind?"
The door slammed shut as authoritatively as the door on a crypt, ending
the possibility of any further stupid questions.
Judging from the evidence, Phoebe had her own struggle with sleep the
night before. Marcia had come down to find signs of nocturnal foraging
scattered around the kitchen and living room. A half-empty liter bottle
of Diet Coke was left on the counter in the center of a sprawling
archipelago of crumbs. Crusted cutlery of various sorts were left in the
bottom of the sink along with two mugs and a bowl. A crumpled napkin lay
on the floor by the couch. The coffee table had its own dusting of
crumbs, a half-full container of Marcia's pricey Fage yogurt that,
soured, would now have to be discarded, and a juice glass containing the
remains of a half-dozen cigarettes.
Marcia was greeted by the acrid stench of the cigarettes on her way down
the stairs. It had invaded her sleep, given her something of a morning
bellyache, and was probably responsible for several disturbing dreams.
She'd have to mention that she preferred it if Phoebe smoke outside. Of
course, she would prefer it that Phoebe didn't smoke at all, but baby-
steps first.
Marcia had already turned off the television that Phoebe had also left
going in the living room, muted, thankfully, to normal volume. Unlike
the set blaring to beat the band in Phoebe's room now, which made it
seem inconceivable that anyone could actually still be sleeping anywhere
in it's vicinity, nevertheless in the same room.
Teenagers, Marcia smiled.
She'd heard all about them, the trouble they were, the nervous
breakdowns they caused. She'd even been a teenager herself, a thousand
years ago, not that she could recall being typical in any way. Still,
she'd heard on good authority what cursed, evil creatures they were
reputed to be. Even so, she was grateful to have one, this particular
one, anyway.
Marcia flipped opened up her laptop and read an email from Walt. From
the timestamp, it appeared that he hadn't had much of a night's sleep
either.
"Thinking about you," he'd written in the subject line.
He was wondering, worrying a little, he admitted, but mainly hoping that
things were going okay. Marcia wrote back with a quick update, telling
him that it was hard to say how things were going, since they hadn't
actually begun. Then she lifted her fingers from the keyboard and
thought of waking up beside Walt, as she did most mornings, either at
her place or his, and suddenly felt the aching absence of him.
The day before Phoebe had arrived they'd had sex, knowing it might be a
couple of days before the opportunity presented itself again. Walt
reaching out to her in that special way he had when he wanted sex. He
probably didn't realize himself the little "tells" that gave him away;
it probably would embarrass him to hear them recounted, so Marcia kept
them to herself. She had woken up to feel him bumping up behind her,
massaging her neck with his fingers, half-asleep himself, claiming her
in his half-dream horniness.
Marcia hadn't been much in the mood of late. There was too much on her
mind. She couldn't use sex, as Walt did, as apparently many men did, as
an analgesic, as a welcome sip from the cup of forgetfulness, helpful no
matter how brief.
She wondered, as Walt's hands roamed over her hips, down her thighs: Was
she ever this selfish in the face of physical desire? Surely it must
have occurred to him that she might be too preoccupied to take any
pleasure in the act. Or did his own need swallow up such concern? Did he
convince himself that sex worked the same analgesic effects in her case?
Marcia didn't think she'd ever been so self-centered, not when it came
to sex, anyway. She couldn't even remember how it had been before, but
there was no question that since she been on hormones her attitudes
towards sex had changed, as did her attitude towards so many other
things. Actually, the hormones had only accentuated what had always been
her attitudes and predilections. They'd only made her more "herself."
More than anything, it was this fact that made her certain that she was
on the right path. Even before her transition, every woman she'd ever
been with had commented at some point or other that she was not like
other men. Marcia, at the time, had protested. What did that mean,
anyway? What did other men do that she didn't? Now she knew.
Walt would be at the bike shop by now but he must have been checking his
email fairly regularly because he answered her quick email almost
instantaneously, encouraging her to hang in there and be patient. He
didn't want to steal away any time she had with Phoebe but if Marcia
found herself at loose ends or with time on her hands or just needing to
talk to an adult she shouldn't hesitate to give him a call anytime. He
underlined and italicized the word "anytime."
Marcia started typing a reply just as Phoebe's bedroom door creaked
open. She looked up to see the girl emerge, still bundled up in her
robe. Behind her a cacophony of television sounds came tumbling out of
her room. Phoebe's face above the collar of the robe looked grim and
grumpy. Her eyes squinted disbelievingly against the unreasonable
assault of daylight
"Good morning again. Well, sort of," Marcia said, sounding only slightly
less insufferably cheerful than she did earlier. "Ready for breakfast
yet?"
Phoebe barely answered as she stumbled her way towards the bathroom with
an armful of clothes.
While her daughter was still in the shower, Marcia put on yet another
fresh pot of coffee. The table was already set, had been for hours now.
She took the orange juice, already poured, out of the fridge. She was
just sprinkling confectioner's sugar over the top of the thrice re-
heated panakuchen when her daughter at last emerged dressed to meet the
day.
She was wearing a long, striped pull-over top meant to conceal what she
no doubt considered, wrongly, a too-large butt. Still, Marcia was
thankful for the shirt. Because it also covered a tight denim skirt
about three inches shorter than Marcia would have liked to see it.
Phoebe's hair, freshly washed and extensively blown dry, was smooth and
shiny as a crow's wing. She was not just attractive; she was a
strikingly beautiful girl.
"I've made breakfast...well, I guess, technically, it's more like lunch
at this point... more like drunch, really" Marcia said, trying for a
light tone. She gestured at the table like one of those high-heeled game
show hostesses elegantly presenting a consolation prize.
The cake came out perfectly, in spite of the extra wait time and
multiple re-heatings. A minor miracle, all considered. It was still
fluffy and crisp-edged.
Phoebe, who was already texting someone on her cell phone, hardly
bothered to look up.
"What is it, anyway?" she muttered.
"It's called a panakuchen."
"A panna whosit?"
"Panakuchen. It's German. For pancake, basically. You know, literally a
cake baked in a pan. It just has a fancy-sound name. But don't let the
name scare you. It's really just a giant pancake that you cut up into
wedges and share. Instead of making a whole bunch of little ones. You
can put anything you like on it. Berries. Apples. I used bananas. I hope
you like bananas."
"Bananas make you fat," Phoebe said, her thumbs flying over the keypad
on her phone.
"Well, I can scrape them off if you like."
"Hmm," Phoebe said.
Marcia wasn't sure if this was an answer or a reaction to whatever
Phoebe was reading in the text display of her cell phone.
"Sit down. I'll cut you a piece. You must be starved. Have some orange
juice. I hope you like orange juice. And I'll pour you some coffee."
Phoebe looked up, as if she were just becoming aware of her actual
surroundings, of Marcia, too, for that matter.
"You know, I think I'll skip breakfast...or lunch...or whatever it is
this morning."
"Drunch," Marcia said, helpfully, smiling, but feeling her heart flip
over and begin taking on water.
"Yeah, drunch. Well, thanks for going through the trouble and
everything, but I think I'll skip it anyway. Whatever it is. I'm not
really hungry."
"What about some coffee?"
"I think I'll grab some in town. I feel like taking a walk around. You
know, get the lay of the land and all."
"If you wait a bit till I clean up, I can give you the unofficial guided
tour."
"I think I'd rather go by myself. If you don't mind."
Marcia said no, she didn't mind, feeling as if she would burst into
tears. "Can I get you anything at all?"
"I'm good. Thanks."
"I'll see you later?"
"Sure."
"You've got my cell phone number?" Marcia started reciting the number
but Phoebe interrupted her.
"I called you. Remember? That's how I got here in the first place."
"Oh. Of course." Marcia had heard how easily teenagers could make you
feel like the biggest idiot on the planet. She seemed intent on
experiencing the phenomenon first-hand as often as possible. "Well, if
you need anything...."
"I'll call. Thanks."
Marcia was about to say more, to nail down something more specific in
the way of plans, but she couldn't think of anything to say that
wouldn't sound hopelessly thick-headed and idiotic. Besides Phoebe was
already on her way out the door, texting furiously, as if she were
trying to crush a sudden invasion of ants crawling over her cell phone.
A cigarette simply appeared in the corner of her mouth even before the
door shut behind her.
* * * * *
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 Bad Pussy
sissyforlife(dot)blogspot(dot)com.
Trisha
- 19.01.2021
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