Writing Challenge ~ December 2013

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ DECEMBER 2013​

Here’s is December’s challenge. To allow for busy schedules, it’s only going to run for three weeks – from today until Christmas Eve. If I get time, I will run a second challenge from Christmas Day until New Year’s Day but we’ll have to wait and see.

So, as it’s Christmas, I’m going to offer you four prompts to work with.


You can involve the prompts themselves in your piece and make your link to the prompts as obvious or as subtle as you like or use them simply as inspiration for something else. You can use part of the prompts, just one aspect of the images, or use them in their entirety.

As there are four prompts you can of course chose to use all in one piece or write one for each…again, it’s your writing, your challenge. You write whatever you’re inspired to write!

The word limit for this challenge is 1,250 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named – Comment and Review Thread

The deadline for this month’s challenge is Tuesday 24th December 2013, with December’s second challenge hopefully ‘going live’ on Thursday 26th!

Previous challenges and reviews can be found here.

Happy writing and Merry Christmas too!

The snow fell fast.
A softly silent and pure white blanket that blotted out the sound while making the darkness almost impossibly light. Fluttering halos surrounded the streetlamps casting dancing shadows onto the fluffy whiteness below.
And through the swirling flakes a figure hurried home. Booted feet swamped by the snow, ankles tingling with cold. More than she’d ever admit. Head bent down, the pretty wonderland that surrounded her could have been a rainy swamp. She saw none of it.
She should have been home hours ago.

The dance had gone on longer than she’d expected. Ten minutes after curfew turned into thirty, turned into ninety. All too soon it was midnight and the trouble that she would face at not being home by half past nine was too much to ignore. Forcing herself to let go of his hand she’d fled. Coat snatched from the cloakroom and into the night she’d vanished. It was all very Cinderella and she knew her sisters would ‘oh’ and ‘aah’ about it come the morning. But first she had to get home and then she would have to survive the lecture that she knew would be waiting on the other side of the door.

Christmas or not, there was a war on. And even at twenty-one she was her father’s little girl and without their mother there to soften his temper, she knew he would be worried sick that she wasn’t back.
Trying not to think about the disappointment that would paint his features and make him older than he truly was, she thought back to what she had left behind.
The pilot with the dancing green eyes and an almost wicked smile that had made her blush before she even knew it.
She knew his rank and surname, purely because they were stitched with military precision onto his uniform. The band, while amazingly talented, was almost painfully loud which made conversation pretty non-existent.
He’d asked her to dance with an incline of his head, a wink and the extension of a hand. She’d accepted with a smile and a nod and a slipping of her palm into his.

Around the floor they’d moved, shifting their steps to match each new song. His hand rested comfortably on her back, level with her waist, with the other holding her own. His thumb stroked the side of her index finger in the slower songs, making her feel an almost sickening thrill in her stomach. One that grew almost overwhelming whenever their eyes met. Once or twice she felt like he might lean down to whisper in her ear, and her heart stopped each time. But it never happened. The song changed or the moment passed. But it was only when the bandmaster’s voice cut through their latest sweep of the floor that she realised just how long she had been swaying and spinning in his arms.
“I…I’m sorry,” She’d mumbled, wanting to tell him her name, to ask for his…to ask to see him again but having to settle for an awkward smile, an even more awkward curtsy and then a hurried escape into the crowded dance floor.

The memory faded as the wind picked up and send a few flakes into her eyes with a sting. Wiping at her face and pulling her furred hat further down on her head, feet too deep in snow to crunch pressed on and soon she was a matter of minutes away from home. Mother Nature, clearly not thinking her homeward journey challenging enough, made the wind blow harder. Chilling her hands as she used one to hold the collar of her coat closed and the other to keep her hat down, she cursed softly realising that she must have left them at the dance hall. Not long to go now, though, she reasoned. She could no doubt warm them on her flushed face when her father’s words struck home. Grinning a little grimly she continued to battle with the building snowstorm.

Suddenly in the quiet she heard someone behind her and panic gripped her insides. She should have been home hours ago.
Biting her lip against a squeal she stopped and turned only when a hand tapped her shoulder.
Smiling with surprise when she saw it was a familiar face behind her.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice faltered slightly. Could it be that Prince Charming had come after his dancing partner?
“I couldn’t let you go,” There was that smile again. Dangerous and tempting and entirely too delicious. “Not without a proper goodbye.”
“Oh, I see,” Her cheeks pinked and the flakes that tumbled onto them melted instantly. His hands found hers, the lost gloves no longer missed, long fingers lacing between hers. His smile grew wider and with a single motion towards her those warm soft, gently curving, pillows were pressed against her own.

The flakes floated down around them and for several long moments they were lost in the magic of a first kiss. Lips grew brave and tongues braver still, one warm hand leaving hers to rest upon her cheek, cradling it as it urged her to tilt her face upwards and towards his. She sighed, that tingling back in her stomach now flooding her with alternating waves of heat and chills. Her free hand rose to grip the lapel of his heavy woollen coat, hold on while his gently stroking tongue threatened to make her knees buckle beneath her.

When at last the kiss ended and he pulled away, she remained as she was. Eyes closed, lips parted, fingers clinging to his coat.
“Here,” His voice broke through the haze and made her eyes flutter open. White flakes lodging in the lashes as she did so. “You’ll catch cold if you’re not careful.” His fingers worked to loosen his scarf and then, pulling it free, wrapped it gently around her neck. Tucking it into her coat and one dark eyebrow quirking as his hand pressed a little closer to her breast than either might have expected.
“I couldn’t…” She began. The brush of the fabric against her cheek told her it was silk.
“Consider it a loan.” He interjected. “You need it more than me right now and besides…it’ll give me a reason to come and see you again, to get it back.”
“Of course,” She laughed softly, stroking the scarf as it hugged her throat. “And thank you.”

For a few long moments they just stood and smiled. The silence around them as deafening as the band had been earlier.
“Well, I mustn’t keep you, as much as I might like to. Goodnight, miss,” He saluted cheekily and pressed his lips to hers for a far more heated, albeit briefer, kiss. Then, turning sharply on his heels, he jogged off into the snowy night.
“Goodnight, lieutenant.” She whispered after him. Fingers stroking the scarf as she watched him disappear into the night and finding the slip of paper he’d folded into the fringing with his address and name. His name was David.

They married two years later, they couldn’t wait until the war was finished.
Many years later, their granddaughter wore that same scarf on her December wedding day.
It snowed that day too.

A Short December Story


Last time he'd been at the airport it had been a sunny summer day, this time it was a cold and snowy December day. Last time his love had left and this time she was coming back. It was the same airport, but everything felt different. Last time he’d been sad to see her go, this time he felt excited to see her come back. He felt butterflies, they had been married a long time, but he still felt butterflies. He couldn't wait for the plane to land, so he could see his wife again.

He wondered how much she had changed during the six months that she had been gone. He wasn't really interested in her job, but he couldn't wait for her to come back and tell him all about the penguins. How they moved, how they mated and what ate. Not because he was particularly interested, but because he wanted to hear her voice again and he knew that once she started talking about penguins there were few things that would make her stop. For six months she had been at the South Pole and for six months he had counted the days left until she would return. For six months he had longed for December...

Way, way, WAY over the word limit...

...and not exactly a heartwarming holiday tale. At all. sighs But, yanno...


I have been expecting it for hours, but when I hear the knock on the door - loud, firm, confident - it sets my heart pounding, and my legs wobble as I stand and hurry to open it. The baby's sleeping. I'm afraid a second knock will wake him...or draw attention from the neighbors.

He is standing there, filling the door frame, leaning against it as casually as if he belongs here. Smiling. That awful, knowing smile that makes me weak...but his eyes are dark and deadly as he looks me over.

"I was in the neighborhood," he smiles. It's not true. His gaze flickers past me to the lit house beyond. "Husband at home?"

I swallow, holding the door open wider. He doesn't step in. "You - you know he's not," I whisper. I don't dare look up and down the street to see who might see him standing there. I don't dare take my eyes off him.

His lips twitch, his laugh is a brief exhalation through his nose, and he nods. "I know he's not," he agrees. My arm is growing shaky on the door. He raises his eyebrows and prompts me, "And - ?"

I cock my head slightly at him in reluctance. It's unfair, what he's doing. Through numb lips, I mutter, "Would you like to come in?"

He straightens up at once, his smile widening as he steps past me, brushing against me in the narrow space, up into the house before I can change my mind and slam the door on him, turn the deadbolt, keep him out. Like I should. Like I won't. I close it behind him, leaning my shuddery weight against the solid door. Locking it.

When I turn, he has already made himself quite comfortable, sitting on the couch in my husband's usual spot. His eyes roam brazenly over my body as I approach.

"Can I - can I get you something to drink?"

He shakes his head, dismissing the question absently, his eyes boring into mine. "How've you been?" he asks.

Trembly, I sink down into the nearest chair - across from him, keeping some distance between us, tucking my hair behind my ears.

"I've been...fine. Busy! So busy..." I laugh. This is a little better. "He's getting so big, he's crawling now, and just - into everything! It's a game-changer...every day is - "

He interrupts me. "Your tits got bigger."

I can't help glancing down, but drag my eyes back up to meet his. Resisting the urge to fold my arms across my chest, but I do curl them across my stomach. "I...yeah - yes. Everything did, really..."

He is staring intently at my cleavage. "Still breastfeeding?"

My lips part. I hesitate briefly before answering. "Yes."

"Good," is his comment.

"Yes, they say it's - for the first year, it's the best thing for him, you know," I stammer, trying desperately to keep the conversation in familiar, friendly territory.

He is watching me. His expression is not friendly. "Show me," he says.

I inhale and exhale. My breasts lift and fall under his gaze as I hug my arms around myself.

"No," I breathe, and he laughs again and lets it go.

Leaning back into the couch, putting one leg up to rest lightly on his knee, he says, "So, he's away tonight, is he? Out of town?"

I nod. "Yes. Just overnight. Back tomorrow."

He doesn't respond. The silence is unnerving, and I speak up again. "He - I-I hate it when he has to travel. I'm not used to being alone. I get - scared. It's - it was - nice of you, to come."

He has stopped smiling, but amusement tugs at one corner of his mouth. I trail off. My gaze slips to the floor. He lets me sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment, then says my name to make me look at him.

"Is he fucking you?"

I exhale harshly through my open mouth at the impertinence of this question, but the beat of silence before I can form an answer tells him all he needs to know. I can't lie to him.

"No," I admit, very quietly.

He waits.

"He...is afraid I'll get pregnant again. I can't - I can't take birth control while I'm breastfeeding, and he...I don't know..."

"And that's why you called me," he says, looking very comfortable on my couch, in my home, in my husband's place. "Because you know I'll fuck you."

I look away, dropping my head so that my curls fall in my face, brushing my reddening cheeks. I am looking down at my breasts, bigger since the last time he saw me.

"You can't fuck me," I whisper.

"You know I will fuck you." His tone is direct and unwavering from across the room. I can hear him shift, catch the movement of him standing, and my pulse quickens. "And you let me in."

It is only a few steps to my chair. He is standing over me. He waits, but I won't look up.

"You know I don't care if I get you pregnant," he continues, inexorably. "....again."

I leap from the chair, my fists balled at my sides, jaw snapping as I gasp into his face, "Oh - fuck you!"

His slap catches me hard across the cheekbone, knocking my face to one side, and I shriek and stumble back into the chair as he leans in over me. I hold a hand to my face - whining, scowling up at him as his eyes flash warningly.

"Want to try that again?"

"You can't - you can't say that to me," I protest sullenly as he rests his weight on the arms of my chair, looming over me, trapping me.

"Tell me to go," he says, perfectly reasonable. "You can change your mind. This is your home. Tell me to go."

I turn my injured cheek to him, stubbornly silent.

"Better yet," he murmurs, pushing his face down close to my ear. "Tell me it's not true."

My chest heaves under the indignant jut of my chin. I say nothing.

He takes a step back, straightening to his full height, and tells me, "Stand up."

I have barely got to my feet and he pulls my shirt up to my neck, ripping my bra open on the downstroke, exposing my breasts. I stand still, trembling slightly with my arms at my sides as he slaps one, then the other, and then grabs one, squeezing it in his hand as if it belongs to him, pinching and kneading the flesh in his strong fingers.

"Don't leave bruises," I whimper anxiously.

He stops at once - his fingertips go white, sinking into my tit like a vise. "What."

It's not a question. He is daring me to say it again.

I'm not that stupid.

I am still and silent as he handles my soft flesh roughly, hurting me. I've let him in, and now it feels good to endure, to suffer like this.

"Look at me," is his low command. I shake my head obstinately, and he twists a nipple between thumb and forefinger until my knees buckle - punishment for making him repeat himself. I arch my back, contorting to try to relieve the pressure, and I lift my head, but squeeze my eyes shut.

"I - can't." Wincing, I mouth the words.

He wants to know why not. He doesn't let up until I whine through clenched teeth: "I'm ashamed!"

His brief, toneless laugh is my answer. "Well," he says. "That'll pass. Won't it?"

He releases my breast and his fingers come away wet. He sucks the ball of his thumb, and then lifts his fingers to my face. I jerk my chin away in distaste, but he follows easily, rubbing it across my cheek when I won't open my lips. He slaps my mouth lightly for my defiance.

I am moaning softly, standing there with my tits out, moaning. Because I know how this is going to go. For the moment, though, he is distracted. Gazing at the wall behind me. A large framed photograph, over my head.

"Is that him?" he asks now.

I can't help it - I swell with pride, feeling the light in my face as my tingling lips stretch in an affectionate smile, and I turn slightly, to look. "Yes. He's eight months, there -"

Nodding. "He looks like me."

I wheel around and he catches my wrists before I can slam my fists against him, laughing as I howl in frustration. Laughing, "Oh - so you see it, too?"

"Shut UP!" I am struggling against him, trying to hurt him or pull free, but he holds me firmly and pulls me close so that I can only recoil uneasily, squeezing my eyes shut again as I feel his breath on my face.

"I'll give you another one...one that looks exactly the same. How will you explain that to your husband who's not fucking you?"

Hanging helplessly in his grip, cringing, I hiss, "I hate you...I hate you."

His lips are on my neck, then his teeth, making me shudder, and he mumbles against my wild pulse: "You don't. You've missed me."

He lets me go. I have needed to fight him, but when he lets me go, I am still. Expectant. Watching him and letting him take me gently by the shoulders and put me to one side as he takes my chair for himself. He sits with his legs spread and gestures to the space between. After a moment, I step between them. He tells me to get down, and I sink to my knees. I don't know what I'm doing - I don't know what I'm doing. I want him to take my hair in his hand, but he doesn't.

"Look at me," he says, "and tell me you've missed me."

I drag my gaze up from the floor. His face is very calm, but his eyes are glittering, intense.

"I - I have. Missed you."

"I know you have, baby," he answers, as smoothly as if I'd said it of my own accord. Leaning back. "Take my cock out."

I swallow a groan, sitting up on my heels, sulkily. Staring at the button of his fly, but making no move toward it. Wishing he would just do it himself. Set this in motion. But he won't.

I reach with clumsy fingers and open his pants, sighing shakily as I tug his briefs down and expose the monster. He is hard, and he's as big as my husband. I have been taking careful inventory of all the ways they are different, and alike.

"Get it wet," he says.

I can do this. I find that I want to do this. Sit up and lean in and take him into my mouth, feel the shape of my sin in my mouth, salivate on the taste of it. I part my lips and slide down the length of him, not looking but listening for the gratified sound of his approval or appreciation.

Hard as he is, he is silent. I peek up and see him watching me, and he laughs as I look away at once. He strokes my hair and says kindly: "When he leaves you -"

I stiffen and try to pull up, but his hand is heavy on the back of my neck now, stifling the protest before I can voice it, denying me the sound of it in my ears, holding me down to choke on his cock as he continues deliberately, "When he leaves you, I'll take you in."

He waits until I am slapping and clawing at him, frantic to breathe, "All three of you" - before he lets me up. I cough and wheeze on the first breath, and he tsks at me reproachfully.

"Shh...don't wake my baby."

Tears sting my eyes as I lift my head to glare up at him and croak, "He isn't."

He is eyeing me closely. "You're not sure, are you?"

I can't hold his gaze. I drop my head and hear his voice, murmuring thoughtfully, "Not sure..."

One tear drips and falls on my bared breast. I tell myself I won't dignify the question with a response, and I hear him chuckle at my stubborn silence. Through my hanging curls, I can see that he is still erect - if anything, he is more so.

"Stand up and take your pants off."

I hesitate. I'd rather he do it, and he knows it, and he won't.

"Tell me to go," he says.

Stubbornly silent, I rise stiffly and fumble with my jeans, pushing them down over my hips. Obedience to dominant men is something I have learned from my husband. Expected of me. It is comfortable, to think of it in this way, and to not feel anything at all. I slide my panties down and his lips part on a smile that shows his teeth.

"Did you shave your cunt for your husband who's not fucking you?" he wants to know. I clench my jaw, but he pulls me closer by the hips, and the amusement is gone from his voice as he demands quietly, "Answer me."

Toneless, barely more than a whisper: "No."

It's more than enough for him. He is grinning, he is delighted. He rises from the chair and takes my arm and says, "Let's go to bed."

"No!" I blurt - horrified at the thought of him in our bed, jerking my arm away - but his fingers tighten around my wrist and he holds me close - close enough to bring the other hand smashing down hard across my cheek.

I squeal as he raises his hand again, and flinch and shrink away from a second blow that never falls. He holds his raised hand where I can see it so close to my face, and holds me in place and promises, low in my ear, "When you're my wife, everyone will know that I beat you."

His face is very calm, his eyes are alight with dangerous emotion, and I can feel the force of his controlled breath on my face. He releases my wrist. "You don't ever tell me 'no'."

He waits, and after a moment I turn away and lead him up the stairs to the bedroom. When he crosses the threshold, I hang back in the doorway and watch as he sits on the edge of the foot of the bed, easing his pants down his hips and gesturing impatiently at me.

"Come here."

I cross the floor. When I reach him, he sweeps my shirt off up over my head so that I am standing naked at his side.

"We - we are not going to do this..." I wish I sounded more convinced, or convincing.

"Yes we are," he interrupts lightly, as if it isn't even a question. He is reaching to caress the swell of one breast.

"...unless - you rape me," I finish haltingly.

He smiles in the silence, allowing me to catch my breath and brood on that thought. Then, smiling: "I don't have to rape you."

His fingers close in that dreadful wrenching grip on my nipple, drawing me to him as I cringe in pain, taking my other breast in hand until I am facing him, and he is pulling me down to him, down to his erect cock.

Hunched over, I brace my palms on his shoulders and push back, only increasing the pressure, stretching my nipples and making myself whine as I strain to keep away.

"You can't - you can't -" I gasp, resisting and relenting when the pain is too much, and then resisting again, afraid of his cock. He is mightily amused. Now that he has me nearly where he wants me, all he has to do is hold on. The nubs of my nipples between his fingers are blood red.

"Better stay off it, then," he advises me, as if it is just that easy. The rounded head of his cock brushes the inside of my thigh - too high up, on my thigh. Watching me fight this, feeling me pull back with all my strength and knowing, as I do, that he is stronger and can force me at any time - but making me fight him...it's keeping his cock hard. He tucks his elbows in, jerking me down another inch so that I have to arch my back just to keep clear of him.

"You called me," he reminds me. I have to look him in the eye as I hurt myself, straining constantly against him. His fingers are wet, but they hold fast. "What did you think was going to happen?"

Trembling with the effort, through clenched teeth, I manage breathlessly, "Don't - do this -"

"Tell me to go," he whispers, and I wail as I feel his cock nudging into the cleft of my cunt, and his eyes widen and his delighted grin is terrible. "Ahhaaa...you did miss me!"

He slips in it, and then slips it in easily, and in spite of how I twist in my agony and buck my hips and push with my hands on his thighs, I can't dislodge him now. I hold him there, but he rises from the bed slightly to drive just a little deeper. It's only a matter of time.

I am shaking and sweating and moaning - bargaining with him in gasps: "In the ass - please! Fuck me in the ass instead!"

He laughs shortly, moving his head slowly from side to side. Lifting his hips again so that I can feel him push in and draw back again - but not all the way. He is not even out of breath. "Not a chance."

I hold his gaze to let him know I'm serious. "I'll abort it. I swear."

"You won't," he says. "You didn't, last time. Now kiss me."

"N -"

He lunges forward and catches my mouth in his, bringing it down brutally over my lips, devouring my protest, and at the same time, he exerts his superior strength at last and pulls me all the way down on him, seating me on his cock, and we groan into each others' mouths as we both feel him impale me deeply. He wraps his arms around me to keep me still and begins to rock, as though comforting me, and he mumbles against my lips, "It's over. Stop fighting me."

I turn my head, even as he clamps his teeth down on my lower lip to make me stay, and blurt stubbornly, "No."

"He's my son." Pulling my hips down into him as he thrusts deep enough to hurt.

"He's not."

We fall into silence as he fucks me. I stop struggling, but I am tense, watching him, waiting for the moment he relaxes just a bit, lets his guard down, so that I can pull out of his hold and escape.

He doesn't.

His rhythm quickens, his breathing is harsh and he is beginning to make animal snarling noises on each upward thrust into my wet cunt. Eyes on my face the whole time, drinking in my pained expression.

"Don't come inside me," I am whimpering, "Please don't come inside me - please - "

"Of course I'm going to come inside you," he smiles up at me - and now he's a little breathless. I jerk violently, trying to surprise him, but he only tightens his hold and snaps his pelvis to let gravity punish me.

"When you're my wife," he grunts, "I'm going to knock you up over and over and over again. You'll always be pregnant. I know how much you want my babies."

"I don't...please don't..."

Seething under me: "Say it. Tell me you want to have my baby, and I won't do it."

"I - I can't -"

No words now, just thrust - thrust - up into me. He's close. I begin to babble, alarmed: "I - I want your - your...baby." Hardly any voice on the last word. "I do."

His grin is savage. "I don't believe you." He pulls me down harder on his grinding hips, and begins to jam himself into me faster - harder - urgently - using me to get off.

"Please!" My voice cracks as I yelp frantically into his face. "Come up inside me - I want all of it - I want your baby - I want to carry your child - "

He is timing his driving thrusts so that my pleas become squeals and it is uniquely distressing, to beg him to do the one thing I desperately don't want him to do.

"Please don't stop!" Disturbing, to hear these words in my voice. "Don't pull out - I want to have your baby - knock me up - I want to give you a son - another b -"

I freeze and choke on the words as I realize what is happening - he has stiffened, he is grimacing as if in terrible pain, arching his back under me - all in utter silence. I thrash about wildly in a frenzied panic to unseat myself, but he is holding me tightly in spite of my wriggling, and through my horror I feel his hand between my thighs, his thumb pressing into my clit - and my response is immediate.

I come so hard it hurts, so suddenly and violently that I have to scream with it as I feel my cunt grip him like a fist and milk his cock into me in hard delirious spasms, and the tears course down my cheeks even as I'm rocking in his lap, chasing the pleasure as I realize what he's done...what I've done.

He finishes some time before I do, but as soon as I can think to do it, I am pushing off of him, stumbling backwards. He lets me up, but grabs my wrist and pulls me down to the bed with him, and I am fighting him again, striking at his chest and face until he curls his fingers through mine and makes fists. Still, I am raging at him, sobbing and furious.

"Why - why!?"

With his hands white-knuckled in mine, he manages to wrap his arms and my own around me, like a straitjacket, and he holds me silently and lets me struggle and curse against him until I am limp and exhausted in his embrace - and even then, he won't let me go.

His lips move in the damp hair at my temple. "Tell me to go."

Immediate. "GO - get out - I want you to GO now!"

He sighs very briefly. His tight arms across my limbs are gone, and I pull away from him at once as he sits up, and curl into the fetal position on my bed.

"I will," he promises gently. "But first I have something for you."

I lift my head warily to watch him rise, and to my complete mortification he draws a slim leather wallet out of his back pocket and fishes in it for a couple of folded bills, which he flips to land on the mattress beside me.

The texture between thumb and fingers is wrong, and I blink in the dim light and confirm that it's not money.

Sitting up. "What is this?"

Patiently - resignedly: "Look at it. What is it?"

I unfold the papers in my hand, turning to see them in the light from the hall. "I don't - I don't know what I'm looking at."

He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down the hall at the closed door that is my son's room. By some miracle, he hasn't stirred. "They're test results."

I can feel the blood drain from my face as my heart sinks like a block of ice into my stomach. If he tells me he's got some STI -

" - of a sperm analysis," he continues, " - two, actually. Performed six months apart."

I frown at the two slips of paper, and see the dates printed in each corner - May and November...of 2001. I look up at him, wide eyed with the dawning of this new understanding. He meets my gaze steadily.

"The finding on both tests was a zero percent sperm count...which is the expected result, after a vasectomy."

My heart is pounding, and a confused flush spreads across my cheeks. "I - how do I know these are real?"

He smirks at my distrust, and there's something just a little sad in it. "Keep those. Call that number in the morning. I've given them my consent to divulge the information to you. They'll tell you anything you want to know."

My face grows warmer - he has told them to expect my call.

"I can't get you pregnant. I never could." The light from the hall makes long shadows on his face, with that strange, cheerless little smile twitching on his lips. "He's your husband's son. Merry Christmas."

He has started for the stairs and I scramble on hands and knees to the foot of the bed.

"Why - why would you fuck with me like that?"

When he looks back over his shoulder at me from the stairwell, his smile is the one I know.

"Because," he says, "you need me to be the bad guy."

He lets his gaze linger on my naked body, then tips me a wink. "So I'll see you next time, won't I?"

December Remembers.

Crystalline and unique they say about the flakes that fall from December through March and sometimes even into April. Each one a beauty clinging fervently to the next as they drift toward forever. Pristine and innocent they name it even when the drifts have buried just as many fires as they've sparked. The end of days on a smaller scale though in the big picture they are just tick-marks on a calendar.

The snow inspires and it murders and it blows and billows like the clouds though closer to the ground. Snow creates desire not just for warmth of hands but of hearts and minds and though the snow is not always wet enough to bind, it will always bring us back to each other in the end.

There is nothing quite like the magic dust that kicks up as you shake the winter from your hair or if you're simply standing there with your lover, locked in embraces better left behind closed doors. Who cares if the world sees? Winter wonderland indeed.

Snow banks are richer than any pig or corporation, never believe otherwise. Snow caught upon your tongue will be the sweetest most pure taste you will ever know. If you've ever missed your Mister or your Misses, or shared eskimo kisses, you know that winter always listens and even when your mem'ries are just snowglobes resting at the bottom of a drawer...December remembers.

Snow was nothing new for him, blowing and blinding and stinging snow that clung to your hair, eyelashes, and turned to water on your lips, helping to leech the moisture from them. Hands stuffed deep into his pockets, head bowed to the wind in a vain and pointless attempt to keep the snow out, he licked his lips again as he marched onward. Stretching out behind him, a breadcrumb trail of footprints was left in the snow, soon to be gobbled up, wiped away, gone without a trace.

He hated the fucking snow.

How he had let himself end up in this tiny southern Illinois town in late December was a story for another time, but it was not a thing he would forget quickly. The cold had set upon them unexpectedly - as unexpectedly as cold can pull up a chair at your table when it's an expected eventual guest, anyway - and the snow had come shortly after. He wanted to leave, make for the roads and race this curse of nature, but there were hands to shake, and collections to take up, and then there was that moment. Missed entirely by those around them, as so many signs were, but her hand had lingered a bit too long, his gaze returned a bit too openly, and already she was his. The naivety, so often mistaken for kindness, that was extended to him by the man next to her sealed the deal. Licked, stamped, dropped in the mailbox for him to pick up at his convenience.

Had there really been a choice in the end, then? She was older than him, yes, perhaps by as much as a decade even, but her skin was fine and smooth, her breasts full and firm and impossible not to notice, and her hips seemed the perfect handle. The potential to be stuck on the road for hours, as much as half a day or more if the snow kept on as it was, seemed great, and by comparison a warm meal, and a desperate woman who was unaware of her own desperation was all but impossible to pass up. No, there had been no choice really. He would fuck her tonight, and move on later. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after. When the roads had cleared, and she had begun to annoy more than she pleased.

A strong blast of winter wind hit him, knocked him off his path slightly, a small dance step left behind in the snow, and he cursed under his breath. Snow was nothing new for him, and cold worse than this on top of it even, but among the many reasons he left Connecticut was the ridiculous fuckery that was the winter. How a person in their right mind chose to subject themselves to that over, and over, and over again when there were entire stretches of the country that never saw a snowflake was beyond him.

He would not be stuck in goddamned Illinois in the goddamned winter again.

Still, persevering, he made is eventually, cold and a bit wet but otherwise no worse for the wear. One hand was removed from the protective warmth of his wool coat, and his knuckles rapped on the door quickly, a bit urgently. Smoke pulled from the chimney above, the smell of burning wood mingling in with the snow and cold and taunting his nose. The door was open to reveal Samuel, smiling happily at him in jeans and a plain t-shirt and his sockfeet. He could've killed the man where he stood. Instead, he smiled brightly and offered his hand as he kicked the clinging snow off his boots.

"Hey hey, he made it!" the man said with a laugh, pulling him in the door and slapping him on the back. He sounded like an obnoxious Santa Claus, but there was relief in his eyes.

"This is some snow, huh?" came the rhetorical reply, and already he was thinking of ways to be rid of the man. "It doesn't show any sign of stopping out there, either."

It was a snippet of song lyric, of course, and no accident that it was used, and both men laughed heartily.

"Margaret is just finishing things up in the kitchen. Roast turkey breast, I think she said. Let's go warm you up by the fire while we wait," Samuel said, indicating the simple brick hearth as wet boots were taken off and left by the door. "Can I get you something to drink?"

A fucking Scotch would be just terrific, he thought but, instead, smiled and shook his head and said, "No, thank you kindly. I'll just have some water with dinner."

The wool coat was unbuttoned and hung above his boots, revealing a thick sweater and jeans. The house was modest, but like all old homes in the area it was two stories and stood up well to the elements. Standing in front of the fire, small talk rolled out of the man like rusty water ceaselessly dripping from a pipe, annoying and of no use to anyone, and he paid just enough attention to be able to nod along while letting his mind busy itself with other matters. Chief among them, being rid of the males in the house. There was no question it would happen, but the how...

"Oh, I didn't see you'd made it," came a female voice from over Samuel's shoulder, and his eyes moved to find Margaret standing in the doorway to the kitchen smiling. Her fingers went instinctively up to brush dark hair from her eyes, and though the color in her cheeks could be easily explained by the heat from the oven, both knew it was not the reason why.

"I did, yes. And thank you for having me, it's very kind of both of you," he said with a smile and an inclined head, though his eyes did not leave her until she'd returned the smile and informed them supper was ready before disappearing back into the kitchen.

"Charley, supper!" Samuel called, only now turning away from the fire to head into the small dining room.

Four places were set, and all took their places once the food was in place, including the freckle-faced boy that sat to his left. Samuel was on his right, leaving Margaret directly across from him, and it was with full attention that she watched him whenever he spoke. He was, as always, careful not to be overt in the attention he gave her, but when heads were bowed and eyes closed for prayer, he allowed himself the risk of taking her in again. His dislike of Samuel grew, the notion that this man's neglect would work to his benefit never a consideration in his mind.

It was just as the meal was finishing, the conversation continuing on as Charley was made to finish everything on his plate, that the shrill ring of the phone sounded to offer him the opportunity he'd not yet created for himself. Samuel shook his head and sighed heavily, apparently already knowing who was on the other end, and lifted the receiver off the hook. The conversation was short, the half of if they heard carried on in a tone of resignation, and he informed them that he'd have to be out and plowing the streets earlier than expected.

"Apparently the front stalled over us, and they're calling for as much as a foot of snow now. I don't know why they want us out there when it's just going to cover up everything we clear, but..." frustrated, he shrugged and pushed his chair in at the table.

"Dad!" the boy said, mouth still full of his last bites as he jumped from his chair, "Can I go? You said I could go next time, and I don't have school tomorrow so you said I don't have to be in bed on time tonight. Just for a little bit!"

The couple exchanged a look at this, with Margaret clearly disapproving, though it was a conversation neither appeared to want to have in front of him. She remained silent.

"You can, but only for a few hours." The last words were barely heard as the boy rocketed for the stairs up to his room, and Samuel called after him, "Layers! It's super cold out!"

Rising from his chair, the two men shook hands again.

"I'm really sorry about this, I thought I'd have more time. It was a fine sermon today, though. I hope you'll make it back up this way again soon, we've really enjoyed your time."

"Truly, no apologies," he said, face plastered with another winning smile, "It was very gracious of you to have me at all. We all have jobs to do, though, don't we?"

"That we do, minister, that we do." They parted there, with Samuel leaving the dining room so he could dress in coveralls and heavy boots. A moment later, Charlie came thudding into the room, looking every bit the miniature version of his father, down to the worn nature of their boots.

"Be careful, you two," Margaret said to the pair as they ventured out into the snow, "And not too late Sam?"

Deeper in the house, he could not hear the reply over the snow. The door was closed then, shutting the winter weather out once more, and she turned back to him with an embarrassed smile.

"I'm really sorry about that, Mister-"

"I told you not to call me that," he said, cutting her off. "Tell me something though, Margaret. Samuel is not attending to his duties as a husband, is he?"

The question surprised her, her eyes widening in surprise and she looked away from him. Her cheeks reddened, and she fidgeted where she stood, unsure exactly how to, or if she should answer. In the end, she mumbled.

"Well... no."

Nodding, the answer an obviously expected one, he crossed most of the distance to her, stopping just short of being close enough to touch her. Knees bending, he moved himself into the line of her gaze, catching it with his eyes and pulling it back up as he straightened.

"That's wrong, Margaret," he told her, his tone quiet, sympathetic. "You know it's his God-given duty to protect you, and see you are happy. He is breaking his covenant with God, and with you, by neglecting you. And look at you..."

He closed the distance to her, reaching out a hand to brush the back of it across a cheek still aflame in red.

"A woman with your beauty should never be neglected. I could see it in your eyes as soon as I met you. You just need to be touched. Reminded me what a desirable person you are."

A whisper passed over his lips now, and were she not hanging desperately from his every word, it may have been lost in the crackle of fire and the howl of the frozen wind against the house.

"You need to be reminded of your place, Margaret. Don't you?"

She held his gaze for a silent moment, then slowly nodded her head, her lips forming the word yes without her voice ever uttering it. He waited still, her first step across that threshold not one he was going to force her to take. They abandoned their reservations so much more easily when they took the first step, he'd discovered.

He didn't have to wait long, her lips crushing to his with a force that surprised him. Her arms moved around him, hands on his back, full breasts pressed into his chest. The stillness as they stared at each other seemed to be building energy, and now it was being released quickly, forcefully. Tongues fought against each other as he turned her around, walking her backwards towards the table where four dinner plates still waited to be cleared.

A little sound escaped her as her hips bumped the edge of the table, and then she was lifted and pushed onto it, dishes being shoved back to clear space for her. One plate, neither of them knew or cared whose, teetered on the edge then fell, a wrecked mound of mashed potatoes meeting the carpet with a wet plop.

Their mouths parted so she could pull his sweater over his head. Her palms pressed to the heat of his bare chest for a moment, and she sighed as his fingers found the hem of her own shirt and pulled it. She was reaching for him again once her arms were free, shaking fingers pulling at the button of his jeans, separating the teeth of the zipper, reaching inside for him with a boldness he would not have expected from her. She found him, her cool fingers around his cock and squeezing, another sigh escaping her lips.

Her urgency aroused him, made him hard in her hand, and as she pulled him free and stroked his length, her eyes watching every move of her hand against him, he stripped her quickly of the rest of her clothing. A haphazard pile lay at their feet, jeans tangled together, all of it carelessly cast aside. Her hips were pulled to the edge of the table, and his hands found purchase on them, rocking her forward as he entered her.

She leaned back from him, hands shoving dishes aside so they could plant in a clear spot on the table, and her head tipped back towards the ceiling, eyes closed. She was not quiet, and her orgasm hit her quickly and hard, rocking the table under her to such a degree that he might have worried it would collapse, were he to care about such a thing. He did not.

Instead, he watched her body move, her breasts sway and chest heave as he fucked her, and he wondered what she had done to make her husband grow bored with her cunt. Perhaps, he reflected in a detached part of his mind, it was the overeager way she professed her need to the uncaring ceiling above, a sound that was beginning to irritate more than arouse him.

Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms around his neck, rocking her hips in rhythm with his, and her mouth so close to his ear only worked to further inflame his irritation. He wanted to hit the bitch, to mark her and hurt her and tell her to shut the fuck up before she made him go soft in the middle of fucking her, but all of it was too much of a risk to take tonight, and so instead he endured. He could quiet her some, though.

One hand found her hair, coiling in while the other closed over her mouth, and at last he was offered some blessed relief. His anger coursed through him still, though, and he took it out on her as best he could, mercilessly, ceaselessly, urgently fucking himself into her, using even the hands on either side of her head to push her down, force her harder onto him. She came, again, shouting into his hand, and quickly after he was there himself.

No condom separated them, one hand would leave fingers left over if it were used to count the times he'd worn one, and so he came inside her, grunting as he flooded her with his seed. She kissed him again when he freed her mouth, this time slower and with less urgency behind it, and he allowed her the moment of gentleness.

Minutes later, both were dressing in the odd silence of the after-moments of forbidden sex, when the immediacy of the need had been exhausted, but both were still naked in a room with each other. She thanked him, kissed him lightly, and they both agreed it was best if he was not around when Samuel returned. She left him at the door with a shy smile and an uncertain hug. He left her with mashed potatoes on her carpet and cum leaking down her inner thighs.

Back out in the cold, and he walked a more leisurely pace than when he'd stamped his footprints in the snow before. He was relaxed, content even, as he retraced his long-erased steps, hands stuffed into his pockets again, snowflakes on his lips and clinging to his hair. At freshly cleared crosswalk, he waited just back from the curb to let a snow plow pass. Instead, he stopped in front of him, the window on the big orange truck descending to reveal the grinning freckled face of Charlie.

"Hey, I thought that was you!" Samuel called to him, leaning over his son so he could see the man below. "Sorry again about getting called away so soon. I won't keep you, I know it's cold as snot out here, but I just wanted to thank you again for coming back. I hope it won't be long before we see you again, Mr. King."

"Thank you for having me, Samuel," he replied with a full and knowing smile, squinting still against the blowing snow. "And please, call me Levi."

Cardboard boxes used to have symbol status for me when I was younger. Cardboard boxes meant change and surprises, new things. In adulthood, they've just meant upheaval. The last time, it had been a box of his left in the trunk of my car for three domino years – falling one after the other with no perceptible reduction in how much my mouth still missed his. Every time I opened the back to toss in groceries or cases of beer, that small container took up every available inch of space in my thoughts. When he came back, when he pecked his way back in like a greedy bird snatching for all of the crumbs – that box still sat in my trunk. Upon retrieval, I feigned ignorance. What did I care about boxes?

What did I care?

The last time he left, snow was just starting to fall. The last time, his lips passed down my stomach and hipbones with twinkling tree lights flickering behind his head. The boxes under that tree provided no competition for that one gift-wrapped sensation of his cheek against my skin. I'd keep that, in a box, tied with a black bow. I'd keep that, in a box, after my cellphone stopped ringing and I stopped thinking of the container in my trunk as an excuse to touch his hands. I wanted him, wrapped up neatly and making sense. I wanted him to have an explanation, instructions, just like the printed words on the side of that fucking cube - “fold here, tuck there.” Something that's been created to keep belongings safe and that has been representative of guardianship – it sounded good. It sounded tidy. I cared about boxes. I cared about things making sense.

For the years leading on, snow falling reminded me of the hole he punched out to leave. Every winter, it was another example of how my shelter had been found lacking and I myself wasn't worthy of a safeguard. I would think of him less and less, and congratulate myself for moving on. I would applaud myself for my equanimity, for wishing him well. There were other people out there. There were other winters being weathered. Everyone took care of their own damn boxes. But he still stayed in my fucking trunk, some shirts and television shows and a box of body jewelry. Some sketches. I conspicuously did not mention his name. I moved away from home, to a place with no winter. That was the worst year of all.

When he found me again, I had convinced myself that I had grown up enough to point out what had failed. To point out why I had been hurt. Coming back to a place of snow and changing seasons felt right – everything turned in a circle, passage of time was inevitable. I told myself that forgiveness was inevitable, too. He would meet with me again and he would not kiss me. He would meet with me again and respect me. He wouldn't deny a thing. He would make sense. I could fold him up, donate him, forget him. By the time the snow flew, I would be cured of my seasonal malaise. I wouldn't give a flying fuck about boxes anymore – he was the last one.

But it all went wrong. He still laughed the same. He still shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head to the side. He still drew his lower lip in between front teeth and he still had the strongest arms I'd ever seen. And that one responsible drink where we met as friends turned into seven catastrophic beers, turned into him picking me up and wheeling me in circles underneath a streetlight. A litany of abuses that were absolved and vanished when I fell asleep on his chest on a couch in a house I didn't know. I still don't know if I've ever slept better. The only thing that fit into a box was that our bodies worked together. He was the paradigm box. How could I have gotten rid of him?

This time there was a house and boxes of our own, full of things that melded together and made some fucked up confluence of two separate lives. The only common link was a ravenous drive, a competition, a quota of bodies that still hadn't been filled. Jealousy and making up. Control and demands. I hated him but I never wanted him to leave. I didn't want to find room for another box. I didn't want to be sickened by snow. We had our own tree with lights. We pulled back the blinds at night and sat in a reading chair by the front window. I ran my fingernails down his chest. I didn't want to lose how warm he made me feel.

By the time he shoved me down the stairs, I couldn't tell where the cold of winter and the heat of the house interlocked. He didn't frighten me then. He seemed like a hastily packed box, all clothes and books and toiletries. He was a wreck. I kissed him and wiped his tears away with my thumbs. I knew then that we were a haphazard moving job, a fucking transatlantic flight where you lose half your luggage and never get it back. There would never be a neatly packaged ending, only torn paper and scribbled out addresses. By unpacking what had never been mine, I had broken something in myself. He had broken something in both of us, broken it further, making bone knit into twisted and careless shapes. When he packed his boxes this time, he didn't forget the one in the trunk. When he left this time, he kept calling. I was the one that turned off my phone.

The snow fell for a long time that year. I'd sit in the window chair, and think of how purity always seemed to run in its description. Fluffy and white, soft and protective. A safeguard, a guardian for the ground. For me, the snow just covered up what lay broken underneath. I stopped opening boxes. I started making them smaller, making more of them. I tucked everything away. Their contents don't make sense, they aren't categorized. But like the snow, they'll fall away someday. Everything broken underneath will shift to the surface. And I'll be waiting.

"Jingle Bells, jingle bells!"

"FWIP" She slipped the pages of the book, through her fingers in an arrogant gesture to the man before her.

"Don't use the good book, like that." His words were strong, but lacked his normal easily wielded conviction and belief. Convictions that were a weapon, a weapon against the peons that he controlled. Or had controlled, till he met her.

She had been in the pew while he railed against the downfall of America. Had smiled at him knowingly. She had smiled that same smile while she parted her thighs for him in the cold, had smiled that same smile for him while the knife parted his skin, and slipped inside him, just as easily as he had slipped inside her.

She laughed while he screamed.

"FWIP"

"What? Like this?" The pages were ripped out of the book and thrown to the swollen and heavy grey sky, flitting down around them like so much snow on this cold December day. Red fingernails glinted in the low light, commanding as much attention as the woman they belonged to.

"Look at the poor pastor, whining in the snow like a little child. One would think a meeting with the Devil, would revive him!"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Oh Pastor, you know why. You're my Christmas present!" Another laugh, another hummed carol under her breath.

"RIIIPPP" More pages discarded, scattered to the wind.

"Don't," his voice was weaker, fading, the pages of the good book, his book, the book that justified his anger, fueled his passion, absolved him from his sins. The same ones that crowded around his kneeling form, pushed to and fro with the wind that whipped her red hair around her shoulders, "please, don't."

Another heavy breath.

She skipped around him singing, "I'm dreaming of a White Christmas, just like all the Christmas's I used to know."

He fell then, and she watched him without a word or song. The red stain seeped out of from his side and over the words he had so clung to in life. Maybe his mouth whispered some prayer to his God, or maybe he knew his soul would never go to heaven. That last rattle of breath from his lungs left his lips in a ghost of past sermons, racing to the now snowing sky. The book lay empty next to it's own guts that fluttered and were soon lost to the heavy snow. The Devil left his body there, to be eaten by the rats that he had impersonated so perfectly in life.

NOTE: Though I didn't make the posting deadline and my piece is too long, Ms. Britwitch has graciously given me leave to post it now. Thanks.


She was familiar to him. He recognized her from his frequent dealings with the parcel shipping service. She was an attractive woman that he’d often admired for how beautifully natural she was and how she related to the customers. She’d never waited on him before though they’d often acknowledged each other with a passing greeting or with a smile and a nod. It was just his fortune that day she was the next clerk available when it was his turn in line. She’d smiled warmly when she greeted him and had not wasted any time once he’d handed her his claim ticket. She’d assured him that she’d be right back as she turned from him and he’d intently watched her as she disappeared into the large warehouse-like space behind the rear wall of the counter area.

The package looked a little beat up as he watched her bring it out of the back room. She was now walking with a slight limp which concerned him. That did not change his opinion of her at all, She was a very attractive woman, and in her mid to late-thirties he guessed. He smiled a little to himself as he took in the naturalness of her shape and the very feminine sway of her hips as she walked confidently toward him. He was enjoying watching her. As if in anticipation of what was in her hands he straightened up as she neared the counter.

“Are you all right? It seemed like you were limping a bit on your way back here?” he asked as she set his package on the counter between them.

She spoke in a very pleasant tone and manner to him. “Thanks for asking Mr. Dunbar. I’m all right really. I just banged my knee against a shelving unit back there. I’m a bit of a klutz sometimes.” Her face colored a little as she continued. “I’m sorry I took so long but with the holidays we are pretty clogged up back there overflowing with packages waiting for someone or another. Can you show me your I.D. please? I know who you are of course since you’re one of our best regular customers with your book business and all but it is required that we record it.”

She smiled warmly at him as their eyes met. He maintained their eye contact as he reached for his wallet in his back left pocket. Her mouth was beautifully shaped he thought as he mindlessly opened the billfold and extracted his driver’s license and handed it to her. He felt himself breath in an inhaled sigh as the tips of her warm fingers made contact with his own. Quietly he responded to her, with a sheepish grin. He was surprised that she knew as much about him as she did since this was their first face-to-face contact.

“I know it’s a bit of a corny line . . . but Mr. Dunbar was my father . . . I’m Greg and thanks for helping me out Miss . . . ” He looked quickly at her name tag pinned to her sweater over her right breast. “. . . Miss Burns.”

She smiled back at him before looking away to record his license information on the company’s copy of the shipping slip. She looked up at him with a smile on her lips as she handed his license back to him. “It’s my pleasure to serve you . . . and it’s . . . Miss Karen Burns . . . just Karen, Greg. Is there anything else I might help you with today . . . Greg?” She smiled and Greg thought that he’d heard a hint of a sigh from her just after she said his name.

Greg smiled warmly back at her. He caught her statement regarding her status. Greg took that as a positive indicator of her possible interest in him. He quickly looked around over his shoulder to see if there where others waiting for service, but there wasn’t anyone waiting. He turned back toward her. “There is one thing since there’s no one waiting. If you don’t mind, would you witness my opening the package and inspecting the contents? It’s supposed to be a journal kept by a woman who is reputed to be a madame who ran a bordello in New Orleans. I’d like a witness as to my receiving it and its condition when I open the shipping container.”

He watched her beautiful eyes widen with interest as the tip of her pink tongue absently extended demurely from between her parted lips and then glided over the edges of upper her teeth and her perfect upper lip.

As if suddenly self-conscious about her response her mouth closed and she seemed to swallow hard. “Ummm . . . really? Wow . . . oh sure . . . that’s fine Greg. It’s all part of our friendly customer service here.”

It was his turn to sigh in response this time. It was in relief that she’d said yes, and also because he liked the tone of her voice and the way she’d said his name.

“Oh good and thanks . . . Karen. I just want to have a witness as to what’s in the package. I have a customer who is very anxious to receive it in its advertised condition.”

With deliberate and careful attention to his task Greg peeled away the layers of the taped bands from around the paper-wrapped cardboard box. When they were loosened enough to get to the folds of the wrapping paper, he spread them open until the box was exposed. He looked up and saw that she was very intently watching his progress. She also glanced up and their eyes met. This time it was she who sighed. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks had more color that he’d not noticed before.

She giggled quietly as she took note of his gazing at her. “I’ve always been interested in history . . . and I’m a bit of a romantic I guess. I know you said she was a Madame . . . but still . . . given the intimacy she must have had in that role . . . well it’s all definitely piqued my curiosity.”

Greg smiled warmly as his face also colored with warmth at her revelation. “ I confess it has for me too. So let’s see what’s here, shall we?”

Gingerly Greg opened the box and spread open the packing material which had filled every void around the obviously old book. It had a leather spine and though a bit worn where fingers had repeatedly opened it. The journal was in pristine condition given its age. Greg was pleased to see that it had not been cheaply made. He gazed at it for a moment and looked up into her face as she whispered a quiet “Wow!”

He nodded and winked at her. “Yes . . . Karen . . . wow indeed. It’s in lovely condition”

Amongst the packing material he found a hand written packing slip. He set it aside on the counter and turned his attention back to the book. He lifted the book out of the nest it had rested in amongst the packing material. He was surprised a little at its weight and thickness. It was more substantial than he’d expected. Greg turned it in his hands and examined it from every angle. The paper board used to make its cover was quite sturdy, and he could see that the paper used for the journal pages was a heavy high quality grade. He opened the front cover and smiled and then turned it toward Karen so she could see what was written on its cover page. In a very clearly feminine hand was written the author’s name with the opening date of the volume, her address in New Orleans. He smiled broadly and shook his head with amazement at his good fortune.

“Greg . . . it’s simply beautiful. Your customer should be quite pleased.”

Greg looked up and saw the genuineness of Karen’s feedback. Added to the expression on her face what he found attractive about her were her hands tightly clasped together at the tip of her chin. He grinned broadly. He imagined her as a child opening her favorite Christmas present.

“I have to confess that I’ve never owned anything like it before now that was so beautifully preserved . . . ” He sheepishly averted his eyes before looking back at her. “I have to confess . . . I have no customer Karen. I’m the buyer.”

“Oh wow Greg. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

Greg opened the book and gently thumbed through the pages. He stopped at one spot to show Karen the pressed flower he found. “Perhaps Madame LeCourt was a bit of a romantic too, huh?”

As he continued flipping through the pages a thin folded piece of what looked like note paper slipped out and landed on the counter between them. Karen gasped, “Oh my . . . what do you suppose that is?”

Greg smiled, “It looks like a note that she kept in here. Why don’t you open it if it doesn’t feel too fragile?”

“Really? You’d let me?”

“Sure. Go ahead see what it is. I’ll hold its place here.”

He watched as Karen wiped her hands on her pants at her hips and then gingerly picked up the folded paper.

“It doesn’t feel as fragile as I though it must be, Are you sure? It is your book after all.”

Greg smiled warmly and nodded, “Yes Karen . . . please. It’s a joy to see you so into it.”

Karen rested the paper in the flat of her left hand and carefully folded back the top folded third of the paper. She read it and then sighed deeply. When she looked up at him, her expression was one of sadness and her eyes looked like they were moist. “Oh Greg . . . It’s a note from a badly wounded soldier written obviously to his lover. He’s not expecting to make it back to her. Oh god it’s like he’s written it from what he expects will be his death bed. He was clearly in love with her . . . Claudine . . . and sorrowful that he’ll most likely not see her again.” Karen swiped the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes before she gently folded back the bottom third of the letter. She scanned it quickly. “He closes by professing again his love of her and his sorrow about his imminent end with his wishes for her future and the handling of his affairs . . . like a will sort of. Oh Greg . . . it’s so touching. I wonder if this was written before she became a madame . . . or maybe even the reason for it.”

Greg felt her emotions as if they were his own as he watched and listened to her. He’d never felt so strongly the feeling of another and he was in wonderment about how much she affected him. Finally he found some words, “You could be entirely right about that. If you’d like we could get together and go through the diary and learn more about her and her life. Would you be interested in that Karen?”

“Oh gosh . . . yes. That would be nice. I’d love to learn more about her and him too. Lord knows what else she’s written about in there as well.” She colored a bit as did he as he thought about them reading such possibly erotic passages together. “It’s very generous of you Greg to share this with me.”

“Well I think you’re a remarkable woman Karen and I’ve known none other that shared my interest in old documents like this one. It would please me to spend time with you as we explore the contents of this little piece of history together. Are you busy tonight? We could have some dinner out and then maybe go to my place . . . it’s over the shop. I know tomorrow is Christmas Eve and you most probably have plans of your own . . . but what do you think?

“Really tonight? I’d like that but I’m not really dressed for going out to dinner and anyway I have no plans for the holiday . . . so I’m open to it. Would it be too late if I went home first and got myself together for dinner?”

“Well . . . I think you’re lovely just as you are, but if you want I can pick you up from your place. Would that be okay? If it is just tell me where and when to pick you up.”

Karen colored some and she smiled warmly from his compliment. She was so excited at the thought of being in his company after all the whispered gossiping she and the other women had always enjoyed each time the handsome rare book seller had been in to ship or pick up another package. Her whole body seemed to warm and tingle a bit at the thought of being included in the study of the journal. It had been quite a while since she’d had such an invitation and the desire to be with a man again. The idea of the journal’s authoress being a bawdy madame also had her a bit flushed with erotic expectations.

“Oh . . . that would be nice.” She said in as professional a manner as she could muster given what was churning around in her head and body. Karen took a business card from the display on the counter and wrote her address and phone number on the reverse side. Karen timidly handed it to him. “That’s my address . . . and my phone just in case.”

He looked at the card and smiled. “I know where this is . . . and just in case . . . ” he handed her his business card. “That’s my cell number . . . it’s always with me.” He looked up at the clock and then back at her. “You close at five and you don’t live far from here . . . so . . . shall I come to your place around sevenish?”

“Mmm . . . yes seven is good.” She felt her heart beating with excitement as she tried to not give that fact away to him. “Not yet,” she thought, “you’re a bit out of practice Karen.”

“Well we’re all set then.” Greg grinned. ‘I’ll see you at seven then . . . and I’ll not read ahead of you . . . I promise.” He had the strangest urge to lean forward over the counter and softly kiss her but he thought better of it as he glanced down at the book and the box. He smiled softly as he realized that he was angling for more time with her before he left.

Karen touched his hand with hers, which brought his eyes up to meet hers. Her face was very close and the urge to kiss her was incredibly hard to deny. Karen sighed softly as if reading his thoughts. She glanced down at her other hand and Greg’s gaze followed hers.

“The letter . . . you must take with you . . . Greg.”

He opened the cover of the book wider and Karen placed it into the same spot it had fallen from. After a couple of quiet moment Greg realized that her hand was still on his arm and he was still holding the journal open. His eyes looked up to find her gazing at him. He was lost in her beautiful hazel eyes.

“Ummm . . . oh yes . . . I suppose. Oh well . . . I guess I better get going. You know . . . Karen? If you’d rather not fuss with going out for dinner . . . well we could just order in. It’s not much longer until you close . . . and well we could just leave together from here. I could leave the book with you and do some of my errands down the street and meet you back here. We’d have more time together . . . umm . . . you know for the journal.”

“Mmm . . . I like the way you think Mister Dunbar. Yes . . . we’d . . . umm . . . have more time for the journal.” ‘And us, she thought. “That would be fine with me Greg . . . if you don’t mind my looking like this?”

He could only grin and sigh. Then his impulse won over his self control and he softly lifted her hand from his arm kissed the back of her hand. He colored instantly. “I hope you don’t mind Miss Burns . . . but that was as much self control as I can muster. Here’s the journal.” He looked up at the wall clock. “I’ll be back in about forty minutes time to collect you and it then?”

She clutched the little box to her chest as she looked at him as he released her hand. They both seemed to sigh in unison at the separation of their finger tips from each other.

She looked up at the clock just as he had. “Oh Greg, I’ll be here waiting anxiously for you to collect us.” She smiled warmly as her body seemed to warm with her mouth.

Greg blushed as he glanced to the left and right of them at the gawking audience he’d not noticed before. He smiled and whispered. “I’ll try to get back promptly just before closing so I can perhaps rescue from what seems to be the formation of an interrogations team.”

Karen glanced around as he had and blushed deeply. “Oh god I think you may be right. Perhaps you could be a little more than punctual. They might leave me alone if you’re actually here. I’m so sorry Greg.”

“Oh don’t worry Karen . . . I’ll be quick about . . . though now this has me thinking of a particular Bonnie Raitt song . . . you know?”

“Oh Greg . . . oh wow. I was just thinking of it too I think . . . if it’s ‘Something to Talk About?”

Greg smiled warmly. “Well there’s nothing like the present . . . if you’re of the same mind?” He leaned forward as gratefully so did she and their lips barely touched in a sweetly soft kiss.

They parted and she was aglow. “Oh Greg that was so sweet.”

“I’m going to work really hard at keeping you thinking that Karen. I’ll be right back . . . good luck.” He winked and then turned toward the door. With a grin he glanced around the office before he said, “I’ll be right back Karen to pick you up.” He gave her a naughty wink as he left through the front door. As he walked down the street, he hummed what he now thought of as ‘their song.’