13 comments/ 40237 views/ 0 favorites All-Moist Christmas By: LawrenceD She came and went a few times. He stood there spying, smoking a cigarette and trying to work up the nerve. New York was blustery—December, and choked with cold. He'd been observing her for a week by then, rubbing his shoulders to ward away the cold, gawking up toward a window he imagined was hers. A few were draped in twinkling lights, glittering strangely majestic against the icy fire escapes. Unlikely hers. Hers would be bare. She trudged up the sidewalk, catching his eye and he didn't think, flicked the cig and crossed the street toward her. In the distance, a salvation army bell kept time with his determined footfall. She let him in, but only after he told her he had money. Said she didn't do walk-ins, called him an asshole. "Hurry up," she said. "I have a client in an hour. Did Rita send you?" He told her he didn't know any Rita. Her apartment was spare and cold, no sign of Christmas anywhere. The place was even more destitute than he'd imagined. The floor groaned the way she paced on it, and she didn't stop moving once while he stood there. He was nervous. She could tell. Her response was to be nervous herself. She told him to wash his hands. "They're the dirtiest part of the body," she said, peering at him as though he'd try to contradict her. He didn't—his mother, she used to tell him the same thing. "I don't want to have sex with you," he said and coughed. She found a cigarette, lit it. "Fine. Blow, hand job, touching?" "Nothing like that," he answered. She picked something from her mouth, a piece of tobacco—took another drag and looked through the bottom of her eyes while gray smoke exhaled from her nostrils. "Look," she snapped. "I don't have time for games and bullshit. I don't do kink." "Sorry," he stammered. "It was a bad idea." He turned to go, and she looked after him. He'd jerked the door open when she expelled an annoyed sigh like a radiator on pressure release. "The fuck do you want?" Her voice on full was raw and frayed, and he froze. "I'm a student." She took another drag. That time she blew the smoke-laden air overhead. "Yeah, so?" "I'm a drawing and sculpture major at Embry Rice," he said, staring at the floor. "I was wondering—" "Aren't you artist types supposed to be poor?" "I can pay," he said, misunderstanding, but addressing the crux. She went to the kitchen, kicked her heels off toward a corner on the linoleum tile and ashed into the sink. She removed the drain stop, tossed it behind the faucet and turned on the water. One more drag, she stood in quiet contemplation before dropping the butt into the basin. She shut the faucet off, turned around and leaned against the kitchen counter. Without the cig to content her, she chewed her lips. They were pale and chapped. There it was. Her fingernails were red. They were chipped, but painted on her thumbnail was a tiny white snowflake. The humanity warmed him, if for only a moment. "You really a student?" she asked. He dug into his pocket for the slip of paper he'd prepared. "This is my phone number and student identification information." He held it out. She looked away. He placed the scrap of paper on the dresser near the door by which he remained rooted. The dresser was covered in burnt-down candles, bobby pins, and blackened match sticks partially submerged in the hardened wax rivers that had flooded and froze to its surface. "Fine," she stated flatly. "It'll charge like a blowjob. One-fifty." She left the kitchen and crossed through the living room, removing her faded purple pea coat and unbuttoning her pants. "You want some kind of pose?" she asked. "I wanted to draw you…with a m-man," he stuttered. Her jeans were pushed down over her hips, revealing an unattractive pair of white panties. She stopped and gazed quizzically at him. "What? Watch me fuck?" "Well, see…" She immediately hooked the belt loops and pulled her pants up. "I don't need this shit," she said. "Get the fuck out of here." "It's not—" She stomped toward him, nearly tripping over her pants legs. It served only to compound her fury. "Fuck you. I said, get out!" Heart hinged on a note, then crashing with a thunderous beat in his chest, he turned, jerked the door open and fled. ** She called him a week later. He'd tried to put the whole traumatic encounter far from his mind. Before the holiday chime went off in his pocket, he'd been listening idly to a pack of roving carolers, serenading the house across the street. His mind was awash in homesickness, candied movie-time memories of roasted chestnuts and some such. He didn't recognize her voice. She nearly hung up. "You're not some sick-o?" "No," he mumbled, and his mind raced. "I wanted to just…draw something real." "You can't draw a bowl of fruit like a normal artist-type?" The joke came from left-field. It was such a surprise, its delivery dry and monotone, he didn't know how to respond. She sighed. "You have to stay out of sight." "Okay," he said. "The client can't know." "Should I—?" "He can't know!" she cut in. "All right," he said. "This is a stupid idea. The client will be here at six. You have to get here early." "Okay." "It's got to be early so I can figure this shit out." When he knocked, she was there instantly. Tore the door open and stood before him. "One-fifty, okay? Count it out and put it in the dresser drawer. Don't hand—just put it in the dresser." He shifted the sketchbook under his arm and retrieved the money from his pocket. She turned hastily, crossed the living room and disappeared into another room. The dresser's top drawer was cracked. He shoved the wad of bills inside. "Always before," she called out. "That's the way clients do." He shut the drawer and stood stone-still. "What are you doing out there?" came her voice, tinged with nervousness. "Just—nothing," he said with a helpless shrug. "Come in here." He went to the room—her bedroom—and stood in the doorway. His hands became unsteady and he shoved them into his pockets to keep from shaking. It was not from the cold. Her scent assailed his senses, and he swallowed hard. He saw her pea coat draped over the room's only chair, and nearby a desk littered with cosmetics and makeup. Upon the desk, leaning against a wall was a mirror riddled with unlucky fractures. He imagined her splintered face within it, worrying to herself as she applied dark shadow to her tired eyes. "What are you looking at?" she said, appearing suddenly from the closet. "Nothing." "Will this work?" she said, and stepped away from the slatted doors which were flung open and clinging precariously to their hinges. Her clothing was pushed to the corners, and those of which were draped from hangers had been divided down the middle and shoved aside. "Anyplace is fine," he nodded. She bit nervously at a fingernail. Her eyes darted from him to the bed, and back to the closet. "I swear to Christ, if you make a sound or do something—" "I will not," he said. Soberly and with a sigh, she took a different tack. "This is a regular client. One of my only, okay? You have to…fuck. Just—you can't make a sound." She took a leaden step toward him. Unconsciously, he retreated in fear. But she brushed past him, worrying the living room floor en route to the kitchen. There she retrieved a stool. "You can sit on this," she said upon her return, placing it between the parted sea of clothing. "Okay," he said. "Okay." Her eyes fell on the digital alarm clock partially concealed beneath a tattered silk slip. "He'll be here in an hour. Fuck. Should you just come back?" "If you want." She shook her head. "You might be late…he might be early. Fuck! You should get in the closet now." Becoming increasingly rattled by her hypertension, he took a step forward. "No," she said. "It's too early." She bit her lip, stopped, replaced flesh with fingernail and chewed at the remaining polish on her thumb. The tiny painted snowflake disappeared between her lips. She looked up suddenly. "Do you want some water? Or I have rum in the freezer." Before he could answer, she swept past him. "Water's okay," he said in her wake. He followed her to the living room but remained there, perched by the room's anchor, an old brown couch and matching loveseat. She retrieved a pair of glasses from a cupboard, and inspected them a moment before placing them on the kitchen counter and reaching for the freezer door. "Shit. Did you say rum or water?" "Either is—water's fine." "I need some rum," she interrupted. "Have some rum with me? It's too cold…being like this." "Sure," he muttered, not understanding. The bottle of brown liquor was frosted cold. She unscrewed the cap and poured two fingers into each glass. "I should get a little eggnog," she said, more to herself than him. Handing him a glass, she did not wait—took a quick slug and wiped her lips. "I have to get ready." She swallowed the last drink and glared into the emptiness for a second. "I have to get ready," she repeated, then sighed faintly. She reappeared fifteen minutes later. He was sitting on the couch. "Where's your glass?" "I washed them. They're put away," he said. She looked toward the kitchen as though unsure whether to take his word. She was different. Lots of makeup. Thick red lipstick. And despite the cold, she wore the slip he'd seen and a black bra. A skimpy faux-fur vest completed the look, but didn't seem to keep her warm. Instead, she kept moving, retrieving her heels from the kitchen and pacing the floor. "He's ridiculous. Russian thing. He's got a thing for Russian women." He nodded and swallowed. He'd quickly come to the conclusion that she didn't like it when he stared, so he tried not to, but it was difficult. He had trouble finding a suitable feature to place his agitated gaze. He was achingly curious about her. Dressed up to disrobe. Could she really do—? There came a pounding at the door. Her face sank and she waved her arms wildly. He bolted to his feet, scuttled past her, forgot his sketchbook and when he glimpsed her face, he thought she'd scream or cry, or dive from the living room window. She followed him to the bedroom. He'd barely gotten himself inside the closet when she slammed the doors shut. He could hear stuttered breath on the slats. "Not a sound. No matter what." He leaned back, carefully adjusted a single slat so that it brought the bed into view, and opened his sketchbook. She entered, leading a large bearded man by the paw. From within the closet, the artist's throat suddenly went dry. He fought to keep from clearing his throat. His heart thudded dully, and it seemed as though the walls were pressing in on him. The weight of her scent off the clothing wrapped itself around him tightly. He covered his mouth and gagged until his eyes were wet. A wholly inescapable reality crashed down upon him as the bed springs groaned. He stared out into her bedroom, cut into horizontal pieces by the slats. He'd made a horrible mistake. He couldn't do this. The client grumbled coarsely at her, and pushed her down on the bed. She made an awkward attempt to stand, but tripped and fell to the floor. She couldn't be drunk, yet it was precisely how the mannerism portrayed her. Gingerly, she clutched the side of the bed and got to her feet. He shoved her again, and she fell onto the mattress with her ass facing him. From within the closet, the artist's temples swelled and beat a fiery pulse. His moistening palms clenched themselves into fists. You do not know her world, he complained inwardly, forcing his hands to relax. He concentrated on his breathing, steadying it and running his fingertips over the smooth white page on his lap. Stay detached, he told himself. Easier said than done. Her slip concealed little. "I'm going to fuck the tits off you," came the man's thick voice. It was not merely that he had a thing for Russian girls, he was Russian, the accent was pronounced. Then again, with his large crimson cheeks, a nose blushed by cold and drink, and the great white beard, the artist got a sardonic notion that the man might make his home somewhere farther to the north. She moaned when his large paws kneaded her hips. He pulled at her, smashing her ass against his crotch. Then he shoved her with his thrust, and caused her to fall off the bed once again. It was perverse. She behaved as if fluid, dizzy. Like a doll. She'd grope at the bedspread, and the moment she seemed to have steadied herself, he'd grab and shove and compromise her balance. It was entirely an act, his means of awakening. Thrust and push. He rubbed his crotch and sneered at nothing in particular. They'd neither of them shed a piece of clothing—she was helping him to get it up. She groaned when he pushed her body down on the bed, leaning on her with all his weight as if he meant to drown her within the mattress. He got off her and slapped her ass until it colored. She cried for it. He grabbed her hair and made her look. "See this?" he said, indicating his crotch. "I'm going to use all this inside you." He pressed her face into the mattress, and smeared her lipstick over the bedspread and one of her cheeks. His hand remained on the back of her head, while his eyes traveled down the length of her body, resting finally on her ass. He slid his finger through the crotch of her panties, yanked and tugged until the fabric cleaved the lips of her vagina. "There's my pink stink," he muttered, taking his hand from the back of her head and dropping to his knees. He stuck a pair of fingers into his mouth, pulled her underwear to the side and jabbed the digits at her pussy. He squished around and found her opening. She moaned dramatically when the two fat fingers sunk deep. He spat on her and pushed himself to the knuckles before wiggling his fingers inside her. "Feels good," he said, less as a question, more a statement of fact. She moaned for him. He moved his fingers in and out, seemingly awed at the way her pussy gobbled and returned them slick and wet. "Just right," he said. Using her bottom as a crutch, he clambered to his feet, fished around in his pocket and retrieved a rubber. He tore the package open with his teeth, unbuttoned and jerked his zipper down. His pants fell of their own accord, and a pair of cold gray eyes hungrily consumed the body hanging askew along the edge of the bed. He dug his cock from within his underwear, fisted it and shook it, abusively. He frantically pulled the rubber from its sticky casing. It looked like a bright red beacon when unrolled and clinging tightly to his cock, which stood straight out. Shaking it again, he coaxed it to anger and swell, the head purpling the rubber dome. He got to a knee, placed a hand on the bed and leant forward, using the other to guide his cock toward her slit. "Dingle Bells…Dingle Bells," he muttered, his thick voice mutilating the carol. "Dingle…all the way." The sigh was deep. The bright red phallus pushed past the taut white crotch of her panties, which lay astride her vulva. She moaned incredulously as he pushed with gritted teeth, the thing disappearing inside her. He was no more than halfway in when he lunged from his kneeling position, slammed forward and mounted her. The head and foot of her mattress bent upward under his weight, and he groaned with supreme satisfaction, pushing himself up on fists and making good on his word to fuck her hard. His frenetic thrusts slapped hard against her ass. He made no attempt to touch or caress her, to grab her hips or even look up. His was a race, strictly between her cunt and his bright red appendage. From within the closet, the artist stared down at the sketchbook. He was paralyzed. This is how you chose to spend your holiday vacation, his mind howled. These are the choices made when we can't leave well enough alone. And speaking of being alone, you're all by yourself, now more than ever. Reality charts a single course; it doesn't duplicate and double back on itself, you fool. The odds of survival are stacked against everyone who dares tempt his fate. There's no going back to what once was. He lifted his weary head and allowed his vision blur. Stop clinging to the faint fantasy of a single boyhood memory. Put it to rest. Let it die. The groans that bled through the slats and assailed him were those of a rutting animal. The man's mouth was open, but the sounds he issued seemed hobbled to his throat—a lodged, gritty mass of phlegm and angst, rushed over by seething hot air passing through an overly taxed diaphragm—escaping as some half-growl, half-panicked cry. "Yes, baby," she said quietly, coaxing him. He didn't require it. Needed no encouragement. His spend was prolific and the grunting reached a crescendo with a raspy cough, at which point his arms gave and he collapsed on top of her. Each involuntary last spasm came accompanied with a somewhat surprised sounding grunt, the cheeks of his ass going concave, relaxing, clenching again, two, three times. When he arose, it was as though she was not there. His eyes bore a dull luster. He was facing the door, looking away, his sentiment cooling in a red balloon at the bottom of her bedside wastebasket. The door was shut before she'd smoothed the last wrinkles from her slip. He guessed he should come out from the closet, but dared not touch the door. What's more, she gave no word nor sign that he ought to move. Just sat there, staring blankly ahead. Her breathing was slow and controlled. Her hair was mussed, her face flushed. Otherwise, it may have never occurred. "Come out," she finally whispered. Only, didn't seem as though she'd meant to. Her voice had caught, and a whisper's all that escaped. He got up and pushed the door open. "You have to leave now." He did, without another word passing between them. ** "What's wrong with you, baby?" His girlfriend looked utterly adorable in the stocking cap, her long brown hair cascading down over her bare shoulders and breasts. But even the smallish, elf-like ears that peeked out could not shake him from his reverie. Becky pulled the quilt over them, and continued to fondle his balls and stroke his cock. His mind was irretrievably elsewhere. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Just a lot on my mind." She worried about him, he knew it. But he felt dark and dirty. "The invitation's still open," she said, gently nudging him. "My mom and dad want to meet you. Why don't you just have Christmas with us?" She snuggled him closer. "Imagine us cuddled up by the fireplace, watching the snow fall...waiting for Santa Claus to sneak out and put some presents under the tree." I know Santa Claus. Santa's a horny old man from Brooklyn, with a hooker on retainer. He didn't say the words, but they thudded in his chest like an irregular heartbeat. He lifted his eyes and sought those of his girlfriend. They were warm, round and intelligent—jade compassion and forever twinkling. She was his for now, but how long? He so wanted to love her. But he'd seen what love could do to a man—a man like his own father. In the throes of a young love, and then everything ended. So abrupt, so dispassionately. He could barely visit him anymore, other than to pocket another tuition check. His father grew ever more despondent, dying from the heart out each day. Becky was a gift he couldn't accept. Nor could he afford the price. Loving meant loss. And every day moved him closer to the one when she might leave. Of course, he'd lose her. He always lost. All-Moist Christmas When she took him inside, her smile was as warm as her embrace. They moved against one another, gently and with only the slightest undulations to build the numbing ecstasy that washed over them. He grasped her beautiful breast in one hand, feeling the lovely brown nipple as it became hard beneath his finger. She opened her mouth to sigh as his cock made deep descent, then withdrew to the point of painting her slit with their combined juices. He pushed forth once more, and a grin bled across her lips. She leaned forward and kissed him, feeling the coalescence of a hundred million nerves, and the utter frenzy of his lunging, spurting cock. Their tongues mated as he spilled within her. The way he clutched her, she felt the deepest affection. In truth, he clung to her out of raw despair, and an all too insistent fear of what lay beyond. ** His phone vibrated in his hands, and he lowered his eyes on the call ID. Cold tension ran its spidery fingers up his back. He shivered, ran his thumb over the display and flipped the phone open. She sounded refreshed, like she'd slept through since he last saw her. "He's another regular," she said, then added, "He's nice to me." It sounded defensive, but read overwhelmingly with loneliness. He told her he'd be over and they hung up. For a long while, he sat unmoved, unable. He'd promised himself he would never return to that place, could not see her again. No experience had ever been so frightening, sitting there in that tiny closet. Watching—forced to watch. And her. It was too much. He closed his eyes and recalled the scene again—the manner in which he'd finally found her. The scruffy dude had been wearing an imitation alligator skin jacket and a black scarf around his neck. The face was rough like the man. He'd taken one look at the photo and said, "She goes by another name. That's one of Eric's girls. Find her off Utica, I think." And he had. ** She handed him a glass of rum after she'd let him in. The stale smell of her apartment was a memory. It had been replaced by a scent that was tannic, of a pine forest or something earthy like that. It washed over him like a fond memory. It was incredulous. On his lap was a plate of gingerbread cookies. They were clearly homemade—the arms were opposing lengths, and she'd apparently been short on gumdrop buttons, having only given them one red dot each; they were awkwardly arranged and looked more like stubby little penises. For their lack of aesthetic, they were uncannily delicious. She turned to look out the living room window while he dug in his pocket for the money. "You get paid for your drawings?" she said when he'd slipped the cash into the top drawer. "No yet," he replied. "You have a job?" "Not right now." He thought he knew where she was going. He took a drink and watched her watching him. The rum was different—better, richer or something. She tossed hers back and passed a knuckle over her lips. Her complexion looked good, healthier. Her face seemed brighter, tight and attractive in the shaft of light that spilled in through the window. She wore a simple halter-top and blue jeans. His gaze didn't seem to pester her quite like before. Though her eyes were still on-guard, she no longer paced. Her bare feet rubbed over one another, toes clenching and unclenching. "My father," he said, breaking the silence. "He's pays." "I don't understand." "He thinks it's for presents for the family." She smiled suddenly, a first. She seemed to like the idea of his misdeed. "Can I see what you drew?" I don't have much," he said. "I was…" he decided better than to finish on sentiment. "Well, can I see anyway?" With a shrug, he placed the empty glass on the counter and opened his sketchbook. "What's that?" she said. "The slats," he said. She seemed almost disgusted. The fragile smile fell away, and with it, the very color was washed from her cheeks. "The fucking closet slats?" "I admit it was—" "I knew it," she interrupted. He closed his eyes. Here's where she throws you out. "You can't see in there. That's the problem," she said, hurriedly setting her glass down and dashing through the living room toward her bedroom. "I was worried about the door. Wait. I mean, no. Come here." She reappeared an instant before his feet could move. "Come on!" "The bathroom," she said as they stared in on the toilet. She looked to him to respond. "It would be better," he offered. "Yeah," she said, and stepped inside. She ushered him into the bathroom and shut the door. "Down at the bottom, see?" There was a square vent in the door. She knelt and demonstrated the ventilation flaps. "Better, right?" "Sure," he said. She got on hands and knees. "You would have to squat like this. It would be better, right?" He nodded, profusely. "Or, don't you think so?" "It'll be lots better," he tried. "Yeah," she said. "But it's much closer. You have to be quiet. Oh! The radio. We'll keep the radio on." She switched on a tiny set that hugged the sill above the sink. Sleigh bells beat out a well-worn rhythm, and she quickly changed it. The powerfully ironic Joy to the World invaded the room. She cocked her head, then shrugged. Just then, there was a knock at the apartment door. She jumped as if bitten by a rodent, grabbing at his shirt. He had to jab an arm out and grab the shower door to prevent being knocked into the tub. His sketchbook slapped down upon the floor. "Fuck! Shit!" She waved her arms and breathed deeply. "Okay," she whispered. "It's okay, right? Okay. Stay in here. Close the door. Don't say anything." She pulled the door closed behind her, but just as he'd knelt, she burst back through and he nearly took it in the nose. Her eyes were full of fear. "I like this guy, okay. Don't say anything!" The door clicked and he sank to the floor. She got so excited over a thing, so jittery. Every move she made jarred him to the bone. He reached out with a trembling hand and adjusted the ventilation flaps. The man was leading, all but dragging her. Then he leapt onto the bed and flopped onto his back. She stood nearby, gazing shyly at him. "Come on sugar tits," he cooed. "You're not scared of me?" Her finger was hooked over her lip. She shook her head, but made no sound. Rocking to and fro on her feet, she affected a girlish hip tilt and sucked on a finger. "Come on, sweet pea," he said. "I'm not going to bite." She shook her head again, whimpered. "Baby pie," he whined. "It's not fair." He leaned back on her pillows and unfastened his jeans. "Got me coming out of my way for my Christmas present. Don't be a naughty elf." He shoved his blue briefs down with his pants, revealing a tremendously long cock. Long and thin. "Look how much I need you," he said in a helpless voice. Her eyes twinkled, and she grinned. "If you don't come over here and sit on my lap, sugar," he said, "I'm going to get cross with you. I might do…I don't know what." Her finger slipped from her mouth with a pop. "What?" she teased. "I might use my belt," he said. "That doesn't never work with you, though." Her head went to and fro. "Nope," he sighed. He made a great show of deliberating, passing his eyes up and down her body. "I might just have to use every hole you got. You like that don't you?" She grinned. "I thought so." He slapped the mattress. "Let's go." Instead of complying outright, she draped a leg on the bed, then raising it, extended her reach and pressed her foot against his cock. He took her foot in his hands and rubbed himself on her heel. She was grinning, hair falling into her eyes. His teeth were gritted, eyes wild. Charcoal met paper and a sketch came to life from within the bathroom. She got onto the bed, immediately seized his staff and fell upon it with her mouth. He leaned back, gathering her hair in his hands and drawing a large gulp of rich air as she took as much of him as she could. Opening her mouth and cradling him on her tongue, she bobbed and allowed him to thrust gently until a soft gagging issued from the back of her throat. She made no attempt to pull back, even as her eyes watered and the tears fell. Saliva strings fell from her lips and swam down his shaft. He turned his head and craned his neck to see how she took him, to awe at her feat. Finally, she pulled off him with a gasp. Her teary smile seemed to say I'm pleased, I hope you're pleased. When she went down on him again, gagging herself once more, he groaned, threw his head back into the pillows and pounded the mattress with his hands. She withdrew and jerked him with her hand, fisting her spit over his swollen member until it glistened. "Just look at that," he marveled. "How about a little titty fuck?" She lifted her top over her head and reached back to unfasten her bra. He took her arms and let her back gently, then crawled over her and straddled her chest. His wet cock thumped her breasts, and she gathered it in her cleavage and formed the slick canal he so desired. "Yeah," he said, and went to humping and sliding his sex within the slippery cradle. She raised her head, and he angled his thrust so that the head of his cock popped in and out of her suckling lips. "My wife's tits are too small for anything like this," he said with a rich groan. The dirty smile fell from her face, and she let her head fall against the bed. "Hey, now," he said. She wore a blank expression, still trapping his rigid tool between her breasts, but appearing as though she'd checked out. "Dammit," he said awkwardly. "I didn't mean it." He freed his cock and leaned forward. "Wait a minute. Let me see something." She gazed up at him. "What's that over there?" he said, and she turned her head. Just then, he pressed the head of his dick to her ear. "Nope, won't fit." She giggled and batted him away. He reached out to caress her face. "Man, hot as they come." She smiled and made a kiss-face, grabbed his cock from his hand and jerked it. He scooted forward and she took him into her mouth again. Still jerking the latter half of his shaft, she stared into his eyes, sucking and encouraging him with soft moans and whimpers. He groaned and huffed, gritting his teeth, and she jerked faster. "You want me to do it this way?" She responded by placing her hands on his hip and bobbing her head, taking him deep, slurping and moaning. His stomach tensed as he humped her face. "Oh, God," he groaned. "Baby pie, it's coming." She opened her mouth and stuck out her velvet tongue, laying his pulsing head in the cradle as she jerked. He screwed up his face and threw his head back. A thick white rope squirted from the tip and she slowed her hand to deliver every carefully aimed blast into her mouth. The radio roared with one chorus yet remaining: All-Moist Christmas The unease in her eyes was profound. She pulled herself out from under him and got off the bed. "I have to pee," she said flatly. From within the bathroom, he slid back as she quickly opened the door, shut it behind her and squatted on the toilet. She did not pee, but sat there with her head in her hands. There was a gentle knock at the door and she looked up, biting her lip, a look of genuine despair and frustration furrowing her brows. "Are you going to come out?" came a concerned voice. "No," she said. "I, uh, have stuff to do." He didn't immediately respond, but finally said, "Okay." He dressed slowly, looking toward the bathroom door once and said, "Thank you." Then he was gone. She looked at him sitting there on the bathroom floor. "Let's drink again," she suggested. He shrugged and nodded. She was wearing sweat pants and a heavy sweatshirt as they sat across from one another on the couch. She sat staring at a distant point, her lips fixed to the glass. "He was young," he said. She looked up as though shaken from a dream. "Huh?" "That guy," he said, indicating the bedroom. "He seemed young." "About your age, right?" "He looked it." She squinted. "You're about twenty-one." "Twenty-three." "Right." "He seemed nice," he offered. A far cry better than the one she'd gotten misty-eyed over. "I don't do nice." "I noticed," he said under his breath. "What?" she snapped. She appeared ready to fight, then her anger was gone just as quickly. She rubbed her eyes. "I've been with a couple boys from Embry." She glanced at him. "That's your school, yeah?" "Yeah." "A couple your age, thereabouts. It's a good school?" "I like it," he said with a noncommittal shrug. "Some think it's too chic…a nice way to put it." "Expensive?" she said. "It's not cheap." She raised her glass in toast. "Thank God for rich parents." "He's not." "Oh," she said. He watched her mannerism and the way her gaze retrained on some fixed point across the living room. Her eyes flashed and dulled. They seemed unfocused for moments at a time, to dart about suddenly as though tracking a thought. But she didn't speak after all. Simply stared ahead. He gazed past her through the window that looked onto a white-brick wall. The afternoon sun had turned it mauve. It had snowed that morning, but the evening was clearing. Christmas Eve would be a frigid one. He slid his charcoal stubs into a pocket and stretched his legs. "Don't you have someplace to be? It's Christmas." "I'll go," he muttered." He commuted the sketch to canvas in his apartment. The neighborhood was deadly quiet, early Christmas morning, and he sat staring at his work for a long time, rubbing his smudged fingers together and staring into her shadowed face. Charcoal was, to him, a superior medium through which to translate his work, as it removed the expressive spectrum of color and forced something more raw and real to resonate. Imperfections were rendered abrupt, and the shades of coal possessed their own harsh spectrum of emotion. Where color might overwhelm and mask the emotion—the cruelty of unintended beauty—charcoal unearthed it. What one saw was what he got. Her features were raw, dark and otherworldly. He was waiting on the corner just as he had when first they met. She eyed him suspiciously, he followed her up and she let him in. "It's yours," he said presenting the print. "Merry Christmas." "I can't," she said. "You framed it." "What did you expect?" She scrunched her shoulders. "I thought you'd just tear a sheet out of your book." He smiled without reservation. "No." "I can't," she said, but she'd taken it from him. He went to the kitchen and poured them each a glass of rum. Placing hers at the edge of the counter, he took a swig and watched her. She held the frame as if it were a newborn, or far more fragile than it was. His ego found it romantic to see the care with which she appraised his work. And the way she looked it over, a critic could not have made his hands sweat so. "This is your mark," she grinned and pointed. "Like a real artist." He'd never intended to be there. He'd been impulsive so he wouldn't have to think about it. She squinted her eyes. His heart thudded slowly, and the smile slid like jelly from his lips. He gulped the last shot of rum and let it burn, placing the glass on the counter for fear he'd drop it. Her eyes grew very wide. It was time. He had to say it a second time. The word got stuck on his parched throat. "Mother." Her lip trembled. She took a step back, tripped on her handbag and fell to the floor. He made a move toward her and she screamed. "Get away!" "Please, mom. Just tell me why you left us?" he groaned. "It was my first day of school! Why then? Why did you leave him?" "No, no, no, no," she cried. "How dare you!" She was white as a sheet. He stumbled backward, feeling the wall for the doorknob. "Get out!" "Don't do this," he pleaded. "Let me come back when you're not mad. Please, don't go away again. Not now." She clawed the floor and lunged at him. "Get out, get out!" He turned, jerked the door open and closed it. He heard her body fall against the door, and the wrenching sound of her groans as she fumbled with the lock and slid the deadbolt into place. The concrete fell away and the street sounds blurred. All he could see was her screwed up face, mouth bent, lips awash in spit and mascara-stained tears. He ran and ran, through an orgy of dull color and sidewalks shadowed by the fading afternoon. An icy breeze ushered him toward oblivion, and he ran fast and far enough to make his sides ache. He ran until the next thing beneath him was a bed, and there he withered and cried. ** New Year's Eve. The apartment door was ajar. He went inside and sank to his knees. The place was empty, mouse droppings speckling the counters. When he could stand, he ran his hand through the fine film of dust on the living room window sill. He entered the bedroom and stared at the blank space where her makeup desk had stood. He glanced at the toilet through the bathroom door, then crossed the room and opened the closet. Her scent fell upon him and tears welled in his eyes. Stepping inside, he fell against the wall and wilted to the floor. Becky answered the phone when he called. "Can I come up there?" She was quiet a moment before her voice broke. "Whatever it is," she cried, "I love you. You don't have to be afraid of being here. Take the next train. We'll pick you up at the station in the morning." He hung up and closed his eyes. Not your family, he said inwardly. The last chapter of mine. He would bring it to her, and explain everything at last. It was a sketch he drew from memory. From the second time he'd gone to see his mother, the first time he'd seen her smile. The apartment smelled like forest pine. She looked awake and alive, standing there by the window, thumbs hooked over her jeans, sunlight pouring in around her. She was barefoot with toes speckled in fading red polish—not belonging to the room. She was apart from it. Apart from everything. Before the train ushering him upstate disappeared into the tunnel, he caught a glimpse of the Eve's first fireworks as they shot skyward and exploded in silence over the Hudson River. The empty car lit up for a brief instant, then the earth swallowed him, leaving the future forever new.