Cherry Blossoms

by KT Morrison

  He said, “Do you think you’ll let Rocco back here?”

  “No way...I didn’t like Dino doing that, he was too big, and Rocco is even bigger...”

  “It’s all for me?”

  “That’s all yours, baby. Tonight, though, I’ve got to get in the shower...”

  “Want company?”

  “Yes. But you have to wash my back for me.”

  “Done.”

  They showered together, like when they were dating. He let her take the water and he served her, washed her hair, scrubbed her narrow back, watched her wet, soapy skin yield to his touch. When she was done, cleaned and prepared for the day, she made him come. Did it with purpose. No soap, she knew that would dry him out. She put his back to the spray and she stood between his parted legs and she stroked that hardness that hadn’t left since he’d woken with it. No kissing though. Kissing led to bigger things and she had to go to work. So she stood facing him, one hand playing with his balls the other gently pumping on him, slowly and steady. His wife studied his breaths, tuned into his arousal, adjusted the pleasure she was giving him. Not some furious stroke from Nia, not some clumsy, half-assed handjob, she knew how to make him come. He pictured her, yesterday, somewhere, the two of them, she and Rocco, her using two hands on his big cock, making him come. Probably in the pickup, that big arrogant monster truck. His pretty little wife jerking off that ultra-man. His hot seed spurting from her pleasure, his slippery evidence running over her pretty hands... Nia was in tune with him, sensing him close, swirling her tight grip around his end; short, twisting strokes, her thumb pressing the underside of his glans. She watched his face when he finally erupted. Held her other palm out like a shield to protect her body from being come on. Slowed her movement on him, smiling at him as he pulsed in her grip. Then she switched with him, rinsed herself off, washed her hands with soap, kissed his chin and left to get herself ready.

  He laughed to himself in the shower at this strange turn their lives had taken. Nia dried herself and she laughed at him laughing. He kissed her shoulder when he was out of the shower and he went downstairs and made her breakfast while she blow-dried her hair.

  NIA

  Nia sat in the Volvo and watched the two wide-open, yawning bays of the old red-brick building. Seven-thirty at night, sun still high and bright, a husband and daughter expecting her at home.

  Fucking Rocco. Acting today like nothing had ever transpired between them. Like he’d never fucked her brains out. Like he’d not fucked her thighs on Tuesday morning when her pussy was too sore...come on her shirt, then right back to work. In fact, since that ugly moment in the backseat of his truck, nothing was said about what had happened between them. And what was going to happen between them in the future...sexually. Fucked her and forgot her. She was used to that.

  While she sat in the shade of a gently rustling maple, hunched down in her driver seat, watching out the driver’s side window at the movements in the twin mouths of the open garages, she herself was being watched. A kid with his grandmother, sitting at a park bench under the same maple tree, licking the top scoop of a two-scoop ice cream cone, was looking in at her through the passenger side window.

  She was in a quiet, residential neighbourhood in Royal York, North Toronto, parked by a public space, a tree and shrub dotted island between her and the historic old building she was watching. Great cover—and she saw her target wandering in one of the open mouths.

  This was probably a mistake. But something needed to be said, she thought. Something needed to be done. She just couldn’t stop thinking about it. Her frustration had grown...grown big over this...and if this fucking kid didn’t stop staring at her she was going to lose it. She’d been glancing over at him, stern, authoritative, secretly telling him to fuck off. Wary of being caught looking so meanly at some innocent kid. But, really, What are you fucking looking at?

  Could he see her for what she feared she was? A woman gone crazy. A woman, now in her thirties, approaching mid-thirties, acting like a dumb twenty-year-old. Believe me kid, I’m just as shocked as you are that I’m here doing this. Fuck.

  She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, showed her white teeth to her reflection, twisted it back in place, got out and straightened her skirt. One deep breath, then she clicked in her heels around the treed island and crossed the street to Royal York Fire Station 455.

  NIA

  Dino’s fire station was small, two bays and two trucks. The building was very old, looked like it was from a different time with its old weathered bricks, solid grey keystones in the philtrum of the yawning arches. There was a modern glass and steel two-storey block that made up their administration on the right side that had been built onto the historic structure sometime recently. A chain-link fenced yard on the other side, two pickup trucks parked, and Dino’s fat-tired Indian motorcycle.

  Dino was there in the bay, in uniform, black pants with a blue stripe, fitted dress shirt, in black, emblazoned with all the official city logos. He was between the two gleaming fire engines, bent at the waist and working at something in an open metal box fitted to the side of the truck.

  She watched him come aware, facing away from her, his masculine senses alerting him to the presence of a viable female in his vicinity. Some sort of primal instinct. He turned, his surprise noticeable but contained. He stood and looked her from her feet to her eyes, said, “Nia?”

  She nodded, unsmiling, said, “Is there somewhere we could talk?”

  There were other firefighters lurking, not seen now, but she knew they were around from her tree-shaded surveillance. She had very personal things to talk about. Things neither of them would want anyone to overhear.

  “Talk about what?”

  “In private,” she added.

  He shrugged a shoulder and rolled his eyes so she could see him do it. The old Dino oh-what-now look.

  “Fine,” he grunted, “come here,” he said then, and he led her between the glossy engines, her heels clicking behind the squeak of his polished black boots. They went to the back of the hall and he opened a blue-painted metal door and pointed her in with his chin.

  It was a dim, small, square room with a kitchenette down the right side, a fridge, a sink, coffeemaker. The rest of the room was four cots, two per side, their low, metal angle-iron footboards almost touching. There were lockers along the back wall, firefighter gear hanging from hooks by each bed, heavy-duty beige coats and pants with bracers, thick, reflective, yellow banding.

  He came in from behind her and he went to the kitchenette and leaned his rump against it, folded his powerful arms up and looked at her.

  She stood at the door still, said, “Does this lock?”

  “Yes, Nia, leave it open, okay?”

  “I want to talk in private...”

  “Just talk quietly, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Can I close the door?”

  “No, leave it open.”

  “Why?”

  “My wife knows some of these guys,” he said, waving with his hand towards the bays, “Talks to them.”

  “What are they going to say?”

  “Some hot number showed up and I disappeared with her in the bunk room for ten minutes. You always act like I’m the selfish one...you can’t see it in the fuckin things you do though, can you?”

  “Here we go...”

  “What, Nia? I’m married now. We were...fuck, that was a long time ago...just...just...”

  “Fine,” she said, aggravated, waved him off with a hand, telling him to shut up. She walked away from the open door, left it slightly ajar and she went and leaned on the high counter of the kitchenette, a foot away from him, folded her arms too, couldn’t bring herself to look at him again.

  Finally, she said, “What have you told Rocco?”

  “About what, Nia?”

  “You know what I’m talking about...”

  “Do I? You don’t think you’re being a little cryptic?”

  “He said something.”

&
nbsp; “What did he say?”

  She scratched her cheek, all the resolve waning, she looked at him, not in his eyes, straight at his chest, afraid to utter these painful, terminal words. “It sounded like you might have told him you think Odelle is yours.”

  “Oh,” he said, she could see him nodding in her periphery.

  “She’s not.”

  “I just think—”

  “She’s not, okay!” she yelled, determined to shut him down, shut down his crazy thinking.

  He put his hands up, mock surrender. Just slowing her down. He had more to say, she knew he did.

  She said, “When was the last time you talked to Rocco?”

  “I don’t know...a week ago?”

  She nodded, both hands coming up and holding her neck, staring down at the polished concrete floor, a pair of firefighter’s boots there, like size 14, probably Dino’s. Lined neatly next to a cot. It was only a matter of time before Rocco told his brother he fucked her. She could plead with him not to but it would be wasted energy. She could get him to agree in the moment but given time he’d still, for sure, tell his brother. She would just let it happen. She worried though what Dino would think.

  Dino said, “Why the fuck did Rocco say that to you?”

  “Why did you ever say that to him?”

  “He’s my brother, Nia, we talk about everything.”

  “You never said it to me.”

  “You made it clear...that time...not to...” he paused, looked around the room for a moment, shook his head, irritated, said, “Listen, I never said to him that I thought she was mine...I said the timeline...it could be...and it could...”

  “Dino, please, please, fucking please, don’t ever, ever say that again...to anyone...to Rocco, to nobody. Do you know what that could mean to me, to my family, one person starts saying it then it’s fact...behind my back that’s what they’ll all say.”

  He grimaced, looked down, held his face in his big hands, ran his fingers through his hair. “Nia, I said that to Rocco in private...I’m not the fuckin asshole you think I am.”

  “You would kill my husband,” she pleaded, “fucking kill him.”

  Suddenly his hand was over hers and the hair stood up on her arms and her nipples tightened in her bra. She looked down at his massive, olive hand over hers where she had it curled over the lips of the kitchenette counter. He was warm and strong and tender. When he wanted to be. She looked in his eyes.

  “Nia, I won’t say anything, okay? Trust me. I have a wife...it would kill her too to find out we have a daughter—”

  “Fuck, Dino, we don’t have a daughter!” she said, and she yanked her hand out from his. She turned from him, shook her head and folded her arms over, cradled herself.

  “I’m sorry, Nia,” he said and his hands were on her shoulders now. He was standing behind her, holding her, talking over her head, down into her ear. “I just mean that there’s consequences in my life too. I won’t say a word to anybody. I told Rocco that years ago. That’s not something I’ve said recently to make things hard for you.”

  She nodded, closed her eyes. Let his touch make her feel better.

  “What I told Rocco I thought was because I was...hurting over it. If it were true, Nia.”

  “It’s not.”

  “For a long time, Nia, you know...I dreamed of us together. I would have loved...if we had a kid together...”

  “We don’t, Dino, I swear we don’t. I’m her mother...I know...”

  “I would want to know is all...I would want to know.”

  She turned herself out of his grip, fixed her eyes on his said, “I’m here to tell you you’re wrong. You’re wrong and I want you to never say that again to anybody because spreading your awful lies could destroy my life.” She held his gaze still, her jaw firmly set, her mouth clenched like she was ready to fight him. Then she turned and she opened the door, strut out of the firehouse, down between the gleaming fire engines, heard that heavy metal door clang loudly behind her.

  GEOFF

  He knew she would be late and he held off making dinner to see if Nia would be home to eat with them. She’d texted him and said she might not be home til eight. Winslow wasn’t in today, just him and Odie. She completed her Arts Camp and couldn’t stop talking about going away to real camp this weekend. She’d surprised him, being bold and unafraid. Seven-year-old Geoff would have bawled at the prospect of going so far away into the woods and being away from his mom and dad and sisters.

  They’d walked down to the bakery together, Odie was on a later summer sleeping schedule but past eight was too late for his girl to have dinner. They had breakfast for supper and he brought her home and she was tired enough to go to bed before eight, all this camp excitement had got her Central Nervous System jangled.

  Nia had texted him at eight.

  Nia: You busy? Can I bring home dinner?

  G-Force: Ate already

  Nia: I’m looking at an Indian restaurant right now and I want Indian food.

  G-Force: Mughlai Korma and whatever else you want

  Nia: got it, baby

  She’d come home with a plain white plastic bag with tinfoil serving dishes. They had dinner together at the kitchen booth, him full already and just nibbling at the Korma. Something was up and she didn’t want him to know. Whatever it was, ultimately, had to be good news because she was kind and warm in overdrive. Holding his hand while she ate, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, giving him big warm honest Nia eyes. Whatever had transpired had bothered her but it had driven her right into his arms. He’d have killed for a sweet moment like this twelve years ago with the girl he worshiped, a tender connection between his blues and her beautiful blacks. Killed for it.

  Then, dinner cleared, still at their booth, sun setting, neighbourhood rooftops going blue and purple from the lowering light, she looked over her glass of wine at him and said, “You want to watch me?”

  He said, “I do.”

  “Okay. I can...are you sure?”

  “I’m so positive, Nia.”

  “Okay, I’ll...I have an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise. Maybe I’ll do it for your birthday.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll have to wait. I want to give you whatever you want, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean it. You’re fuckin everything, okay?”

  “I know, Nia.”

  “Geoff, I would do anything for you.”

  19

  Remotely

  Friday, July 21st

  GEOFF

  Winslow was inching up behind Odie, one small step at a time, completely noiseless, while Geoff had her attention with the scariest campfire story he knew. He was trying not to burst out laughing.

  Odie had wanted to know a good scary story that she could frighten the other kids with around the campfire. She’d been sitting on an office chair, backwards, on her knees, hands gripping the headrest and making it spin back and forth in quick half moons. O had been non-stop all day with this nature camp business, what she called a real camp. Like what you saw on TV, where you went away into the woods and canoed, she babbled. Then the prospect of the campfire hit her and she knew, probably from cartoons, that she’d need to be armed with a scary story. In typical Odie fashion, his smart and dominant little girl, it needed to be the story to end all stories, the scariest one around, one she could use to punish weaker children with.

  So, Geoff was now slumped in his Herman Miller, his daughter enraptured by his tale of horror. He’d unnerved himself with the telling, part way through wondering if this was too extreme, trying to judge her maturity again and remember what would be too much for her age. She was scared, he could see it in her face, there was no quitting now, she needed to hear the end. He told her a tale of a headless lumberjack, murdered by townspeople who’d wrongly accused him of murder. They’d tied him to a track in a mine and his head was cut off by a coal cart. Then on the anniversary of his death, ev
eryone involved in his murder, one by one, were found with their head chopped off with a lumberman’s axe. The camp is long gone now, he told her but the woods are still haunted and every year when the moon is full and the timing is right someone from the camp she is staying at will see him in the woods, wandering with his thirsty axe, a belt around his flannel coat with the heads of his victims hanging from it, still looking for vengeance...

  Odie screamed, high-pitched, like a piercing siren, jangling his brain, disrupting his electromagnetic pulses. Winslow jumped, arms spasming as they were poised above Odie to give her a jolt.

  Odie was laughing; laughing the laugh of a victorious seven-year-old girl. A cackle really. Geoff was mostly flooded with relief that she wasn’t scarred by his strangely murderous story. His hands were tingling by the surprise of her scream.

  “I saw your reflection in the monitor, ding-dong,” she laughed, rolled up in the office chair on her back.

  “Black mirror,” Winslow said, clutching his heart.

  “I got you good,” Odie cooed.

  Winslow shook his head, wouldn’t admit it, and he went back to his chair, smirking, sat down and went back to work.

  Odie said, “You farted,” then wafted her little hand under her nose, taunting him.

  Winslow frowned, said, “I did not.”

  “I scared him so bad he farted, Dad.” She swivelled the chair to face Geoff with one bare foot on the concrete floor.

  Geoff laughed, not too hard, whether it was true or not, he should spare Winslow. Didn’t need two Kanes laughing at him at the same time.

  He turned back to his computer, saw some e-mails all come in at the same time. Winslow behind him said, “Odie needs her diaper changed.”

  “You need your diaper changed, poopy-pants.”

  “That lumberjack looks for girls that pooped in their diapers, you better watch your back Odie-Wan-Kenobi.”