Young Writers Society

(I haven't posted anything in a while, and haven't written anything either. So, here's something I wrote for a class a while back that I have been tinkering with ever since.)

GOLDILOCKS

The grunt. The throb. The collapse. We lay together on the bed. One body. One heavy breath.

“That was great, Baby. Was it good for you?” he asked as he rolled gently off of me onto his side of the bed. He looked at me with needy eyes, seeking approval.

I smiled reassuringly, tightly. “It was great, Sweet.” I tried to look him in the eyes as I answered, but my eyes strayed to the alarm clock just beyond his left shoulder on the bedside table. She would be home soon.

He followed my glance. “Don’t worry. We still have time. Come here.” He reached out his arms and drew me to his chest. “Shhh. Just relax.”

My cheek rested on his naked chest. The dark curly-cues of hair felt rough against my face, and I could taste his salt skin against my lips. His heart beat a slow steady rhythm in my ear. I could feel my own heart in dissonant tones, fast, impatient.

“Do we really have time for this? We’ll fall asleep.” My vision strayed to the wall beyond the clock. To a framed photograph. To the face of the woman in the portrait. She wore a smile like an accessory. It did not touch her eyes. They seemed to look back at me, dark and sad. “We don’t want her to find us here.”

“You worry too much.” His encircling arms loosed their hold around me. I sat up and looked down at him. He was lying naked and prone on top of the blankets. We had not even taken the time to get under the covers.

“I think I’ll take a shower.” I could feel the eyes of the portrait on me. I hated this room.

“I’ll join you.” He began to sit up, a sly smile on his thin lips.

“No. You look too comfortable. Besides, if you join me, we’ll only get dirty again.” I tried to sound cheerful and flirty, but really, I just wanted to be alone.

He sighed, lied back down and shut his eyes. He did not see me slip between him and the portrait on my way to the door.

My panties and bra were on the floor just inside the room. I found my skirt just outside the door. My blouse I found on the stairs. I made my way slowly and stiffly to where the cotton blouse lay halfway down the staircase. Not an hour ago I had run up these stairs towards the bedroom in wet anticipation. Nothing can compare with anticipation.

I gathered the discarded clothes and headed for the bathroom. I decided to use the guest bath instead of the master bath. I didn't want to have to walk through the bedroom again. I didn't want to run the risk of him joining me.

My bare feet padded lightly on the carpeted hallway. I crept passed the closed door of his daughter’s room. She was sleeping inside. I wondered what she must have been dreaming about: fairy-tale prince charming or the big bad wolf. I dismissed such thoughts. She was too young to understand the difference.

I passed her room and continued down the hall. It was a gallery of family pictures. Some of the people I didn't recognize: her relatives, his. There were pictures of my Sweet, of his daughter, his wife. Right outside the bathroom door hung their wedding picture in a gilded frame. The couple stood close together. They were both smiling, he with his charming grin, she with a proud, smug look. Maybe, that was just my imagination.

I had a wild, irrational impulse to knock the photograph off the wall, break it. I went so far as to reach for the frame, but caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the glass and hesitated. My face loomed oppressive over the couple, an eclipse of golden hair. It should have been me.

I left the portrait on the wall and continued on into the bathroom. It was small, yet immaculate. Tiles, walls, and towels were all of perfectly coordinated in envy green. The towels were even monogrammed. RPE: Robert Patrick Edwards, my Sweet. JTE: Joyce Tailor-Edwards, a name that means joy. I stared at that towel, at the gold embroidery. I let my eyes slide out of focus until I could imagine the letters spelled anything, my initials, my his-and-hers towels, my bathroom, my house, my life. All hers.

I turned the shower on and laid out my clothes on the counter as I waited for the water to heat. The polyester skirt and cheap cotton blouse laid on the counter like an invisible me, form without substance. I suddenly felt my nakedness. I was anxious for the water to heat.

I slipped into the stream of water, hot and purifying. I hugged that stream against my body, washing off the sweat, the semen, the sex.

I could feel clean, and the longer I stayed, the cleaner I felt. I scrubbed his kisses from my neck, his touch from my breasts, the empty place between my legs. I turned up the temperature and pressure of the stream. It burned, made my skin red. All the better.

I listened to the water. There was a low pounding as it struck my body and the tub. Way above that was the high-pitched sound of the water running from the shower-head. I could almost hear a baby’s cry in that. This shower always sounded like someone crying.

I lingered in the shower until the water ran cold. It happened all of a sudden. Hot. Hot. Cold. Like passion.

I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. I stood dripping in front of the monogrammed towels. Which one should I use? My hand first went to JTE. I could wrap up in that towel and pretend it was mine. I could use her towel; it would not such a big deal. It would not the first thing of hers I had taken.

I grabbed RPE and wrapped myself in green terry cloth, the “his” towel. I had no claim to hers.

As I dried, I became aware of the reason my hot shower had so quickly turned cold. From down the hall, I could hear the baby-cry sound of the master shower.

I looked to the clock above the counter. I had been in the shower for twenty minutes. Robert did not have time to wait for me to finish before he started his. She would be home in less than half an hour.

I dressed carefully, not the hurried passion with which I had previously removed them.

I finished dressing to the muffled crying of Robert’s shower. As I buttoned the blouse, I heard a louder, clearer cry. Robert’s daughter.

I wondered, was she crying for her mother or her father?

I knew Robert probably couldn't hear her over the noise of the shower. Whether she cried for mother or father didn't matter. The girl would have to settle for me.

I went to the nursery and opened the door. The child was standing in her crib, supporting herself by gripping the bars. She turned her attention to me and hiccuped a few cries. In the soft glow of the nightlight, I could see her dark eyes turned to me. She looked like her mother.

“What’s the matter little darlin’?”

I went to crib and lifted her out. I expected her to scream. After all, I was a stranger to her. She seemed to settle quite content into my arms.

“That’s a good girl. What was all that big noise about?” I patted her on the behind and got my answer. Wet diaper. So much for my shower.

“Yeah, I’d be upset too. OK. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I carried her over to the changing table. By the light leaking in from the hallway, I found the diapers and wipes.

I removed the offending wet diaper and threw it in the trash can by the changing table. The girl kicked her little pink feet, reveling in her nakedness. She squealed in protest when the cold wipe touched her skin.

“I’m sorry, Darlin’. I know that’s cold. It’ll just take a sec.” I finished quickly and redressed her. “There. Isn’t that better?”

I picked her up and carried her to the rocking chair near the crib. I fell into a natural rhythm gently rocking her back and forth. She settled down into my arms.

“Aren’t you a sweet little thing?” I looked down at her in the half-light creeping in from the hall. Her colors and features softened in the shadows until she could have looked like any child. What would my child have looked like? Dark like her father? Golden like me?

There is no point in thinking like that. Women like Joyce get to have children. Women like me have bastards. Or abortions.

The girl was starting to fuss. I wondered if I was upsetting her.

“Sorry, Darlin’. It’s not your fault.”

I resumed rocking, and she quieted down. “Your father is taking his time isn’t he?” She looked at me when I spoke and seemed to like the sound of my voice. “You want a story?” I quickly surveyed the room for a book. There was a book of fairy-tales on the floor near the foot of the crib. I stuck out a bare foot and dragged the book towards me. I picked it up, trying not to disturb my little friend. The book opened to the story of Goldilocks and the three bears. Once upon a time…

Once upon a time there was a woman named Goldilocks who was in love with Papa Bear. She had to wait for Mama Bear to leave so she could sneak into the house. Mama Bear never knew about Goldilocks. Never knew that she had been sitting in her chair, having sex in her bed.

“You look so good with her.” It was Robert’s voice coming from the doorway. He was blocking the light. “You will make a great mother someday.” I would have. He had no idea.

“Yeah, someday.” It was always someday with him. Someday after the promotion comes through, after the baby is in school, when I can afford alimony and a new wife, we can be together.

I knew all about someday.

“Come on, Babe, we don’t…” he began.

“Have much time. I know.” I stood and laid Baby Bear back in her crib. She stirred, but seemed almost grateful to finish her nap. I stroked her plump little cheek. “She woke up while you were in the shower. She needed changed.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you with that.”

“It’s OK. I didn’t mind.” I really didn’t. “She’s a good baby.” An innocent baby. A baby who had no idea that Goldilocks was stealing her father.

“She is a good baby.” Robert beamed with a father’s pride. He stepped over stand next to the crib and took my hand. “I hate having to say this…”

“But I have to leave”

“Yeah.” He kissed me on the neck. “I’ll walk you out.”

He led me down the stairs, cool and formal. No sign of our earlier passion. It was always like that after.

I found my left shoe at the base of the stairs and my right one in the foyer. I sat in the chair by the door to put them on. Robert was talking to me the whole time.

“It won’t always be like this. I promise. I just need some time…” to get some money saved up… to get a better job… to figure out how to tell Joyce…

I wasn’t really listening. I had heard it all before. I just stared at my feet and fastened the tiny brass buckles.

I noticed something shiny on the tile by my left foot. An earring. My earring. Instinctively, I touched my earlobes. The right one was empty.

“That’s the hardest part. Figuring out how to tell her. I don’t want to hurt anymore than I have to. You know?” I knew. Nothing I hadn’t heard before.

I reached for the earring but not because I wanted it back, after all, it was only imitation gold. It was evidence.

“…and if she found out about you, she might make it really hard for me to see my daughter. I couldn’t live with that.”

I picked up the earring and brought it to my lobe.

“She needs both of us. And Joyce needs me too. I don’t know how I could leave her. But I can’t leave you either. I love you. You know I do.” His usual I-feel-guilty-speech. He'll never be able to decide. I have heard this speech since before his daughter was even conceived. It only varied slightly.

My hand felt tired. I couldn't seem to get the earring back in. Finally, I let it drop back to the tile. Evidence.

Maybe it would be dismissed, the babysitter’s, Robert’s sister’s. Maybe Robert would find it, hide it from her. Maybe it wouldn’t be found at all. Maybe, she would find it and force Robert to decide. Maybe this was the only say I would get.

Once upon a time, Goldilocks was here.