Sheila was dead? I couldn’t fathom it. I had just talked to her yesterday. As the car started to pull away from the curb I chanced one glance towards the house. John was pounding on the glass and I could tell from his lips he was calling to me. Then something made me look towards the front door. Hawk stood there watching me taken away. Before I tore my eyes away I saw his face, full of determination. On the way to the police station I heard the officers in front talking. I don’t know what they were saying. I didn’t care. My son had watched me taken away in a police car. The look of determination on Hawk’s face scared me. Was he going to try to prove my innocence, or did he think I did it? I turned my face to look out the window. Watching as buildings I had seen ever since I was a little girl fly by. I heard the sirens on the top of the car blaring. I closed my eyes trying to fight back the tears. I had to be strong now, crying wasn’t going to get me out of this situation. After what. Can’t life, all of life, just be like this precise moment forever? That is, not drunk, but getting there. The cusp of the thing always radiates more charm that the thing itself. “All promise outstrips performance,” sayeth Emerson.Well, not always. The deft hands and fairy-tender mouth of the Tufts girl provided a rare, indelible exception. Her promise, her stated intent, as potent as it was, was still not as powerful as her careful, charming, solicitous attentions. She’d pulled off her threadbare sweater so I could see and touch her dangling breasts.I watched her, my disbelief suspended: watched her as she moved her small hand with its tiny, dove-gray nails and her soft lips back and forth along the stiff shaft of my cock. I looked at our reflection in the full-length mirror tacked to the closet door, a frank tableau, a pornographic trope, her on her knees servicing my obdurate lust, her narrow back and visible ribs, her young ass sweet and round in her tight faded jeans. I touched.
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