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  They think they’re invincible, he thought. They think the whole universe revolves around them; that this ephemeral moment will never end.

  Only yesterday he too was like them.

  He envied them and suddenly wished to do them harm. He was jealous of their strength. He had so little time left and they had a lifetime before them.

  Damn time, he thought trembling to keep his feet steady on the sidewalk.

  “Hi Sharon,” a male voice had caught up with the best friends.

  “Hi,” said a subdued Sharon.

  For the life of her she had no idea who this boy was.

  He was in her English class.

  He shyly moved on, hugely embarrassed at the cold response from Sharon.

  “All right, Sharon!” said sarcastic Kitty. “Got yourself a bite there.”

  Chapter One

  It was in Sharon’s character to believe in lovely daydreams carefully preserved in the archives of her mind. Lovely, lovely thoughts which repeated over time, become true.

  *

  He gently lobbed the dark purple grape carefully targeting her adolescent cleavage well defined between her growing breasts impatiently showing off through her barely sleeveless tank top. She recalled the shiny grape, a vivid image permanently stored with love in her mind, the scene unfolding longingly before her persistent blue eyes, as she lay on her bed, grown up now, affectionately daydreaming of that tender day of her young girl’s years. Her mind froze the scene in mnemonic space giving time for her eyes to reload the beautiful face with the sweet demeanour and aggressive coyness of the sixth grade boy, on that field trip bus, on that spring day of the many years before. As if it were yesterday, she remembered that he had missed his aim on his first try and she thought she was to blame. He playfully smiled his determination to reach her through her youthful breasts which she fashionably exposed, for the attention they deserved, beneath her white shirt. Shyly she blushed, and on his next toss, she immodestly moved her chest ever so imperceptibly forward, and up, and caught the grape between her small breasts, as he had wanted her to do. From a distance she sensed his impatience to touch her, and felt his fixed charge as something new, full of uninhibited energy that affected a strong sexual response in her. She was embarrassed because she didn’t know whether to remove the grape now firmly settled between her stirring breasts, or just hold it in secret excitement where it had lodged. She took deep and hard breaths and put her hands between her knees. In silence she felt the uncomfortable self-consciousness of her pounding heart that was so grownup personal. Motionless she sat on that bus, facing the ruddy-faced boy and felt the warmth of the newly discovered excitement as she, for the first time, experienced the strange feeling of someone taking her breath away. She was in love, and full of excitement she felt her breasts agitating hot against the coolness of the firm grape nestled in her young girl’s chest. Strangely, she felt aroused all over her young body.

  He smiled hard, as if he knew how she felt, and she smiled back.

  Bemused by the coyness of her first boy sexual excitement, daringly she looked hard at the triumphant smile of the determined boy, and she felt pleasure. From a distance, his eyes penetrated deep into hers; he knew what he was doing, and she smiled back her pleasure.

  *

  In the privacy of her early morning awakening moments, she opened her eyes, but the sweetness of the long ago memory stayed intact in her mind, as if present time had merged with that magic instance of the past into one perpetually paused-forever frame. In the pleasing reflections that often accompany waking up, a gripping nostalgia had melded the time of her first love with the present satin sheets sensations of her bed. Her long legs and now adult breasts intertwined with that long ago memory, and it felt good. And for Sharon, that union would remain intact for all time. As it was then, so it would forever be in her busy mind, wherein she would still be the blossoming young girl in love forever. And like most girls’ recollections of first love, still lovely sweet was the youthful eagerness of that day when she first felt the weird and wonderful thrill of romance in the flirtatious eroticism of being alone with a boy; the utterly beautiful sensation of a boy wanting her, and she him. Fondly she recalled that later on that school field trip day, as the rest of the group was meandering through the San Diego Zoo, for one brief moment, he held her by her hips, looked into her innocent, crystal clear blue eyes, kissed her lips ever so gently, and dared to touch her baby breasts. With a softly echoed sadness, she would patiently dwell again and again on that memory that she never wished to forget.

  Like the wholesomeness of a country love song that never leaves one’s mind, such innocent love, so long ago, so very young, so very brief, Sharon never again encountered. During days when disappointment or sadness invaded her heart, she always found comfort in the recollection of the warm tender feelings in that long ago but still most powerful memory of her twelfth year. So enchanting had been the affection of that first love, on that spring day, on that field trip, that it forever imprinted on her soul an adolescent girl’s first erotic smile that always wonderfully unfolded on her rose painted lips that were a gift from heaven.

  *

  The sensation of the grape between her breasts forever clung to her mind. Whenever a boy danced with her, she would think of grapes. The size of the grapes became a kind of measuring stick of how much she liked a particular boy: the bigger, firmer the grape, the more she liked the boy holding her in his arms. During school dances, when she danced a slow dance with a boy she liked, her mind filled with sensational purple grapes. She knew the purple grape sensation was the real thing because some boys made her a lot sexier, while those whom she wasn’t interested registered sour. When she first met Hank and he smile-spoke to her, she sensed a few grapes bumping on her ass, but, strangely, nothing, even when he first kissed her; and likewise nothing on all subsequent making out times. She attributed her grape-less reaction to star quarterback Hank to his guttural utterances as his preferred method of intercourse. After all, it would have been unnatural to be a star quarterback on the high school varsity team and be cleverly articulate at the same time. So, mostly raisings when Hank held her.

  She rolled on her back on her fluffy expensive, king size bed and playfully touched her breasts, exquisitely mature now. She was proud of her firm pointing breasts, difficult to hide under any modesty, the envy of all women, and accessible only to her husband. They were luxuriant beauties, splendid to the eye and touch. Aroused by annoying stares wherever she went, she had finally accepted her fate that her gorgeous breasts would be a permanent target, invariably full of the lusting attraction.

  She gently pushed them up and sensed her nipples harden red, at all times obedient and receptive to her devotion.

  She thought of grapes and her nipples hardened.

  Surely they are jewels of love, gifts from the gods, much more than the simple pairing of DNA, she sighed at the satisfaction, as she gently caressed them, lying naked on her immense purple satin sheets that stretched across her royal bed. Strange that she loved her breasts so much. But then, if the world loved them, why shouldn’t she? Definitely some sort of psychosexual hang-up; she didn’t care.

  Carefully she touched her upright nipples, and made them red and hard and wicked as any woman could wish. Uplifting, she shyly blushed, which was rather silly because she was alone in her own bedroom at that moment. And as she sighed and moaned her secret pleasures, she sought the fresh-faced image of that handsome boy of long ago, even though she was hardly a flawless adolescent girl now days.

  Well into her narcissistic moment of breath-taking recollection of adolescent sensuality, she now felt like a well-brushed Siamese and had an urge to naughtily lick herself but didn’t know where. She rolled on her bed and let the satin caress her naked body, the smoothness of the sheets making her purr as hungrily as any wanton pussy cat. She had long ago understood perfectly well why men found her erotic
ally appealing but equally forbidding, and there was thrill in her morning affections. For who would dare offend an angel? In and on Sharon, the Good Lord had sketched and chiselled flawless curves and soft lines blending all around her adorable body celestial lights of pure whites and pinks in mysterious tones of perfection and love which transcended all incarnations of genetic material. She was gorgeous all over her perfectly sculptured, graceful body.

  She sought happiness and thought pleasure was the means to it so she put her hands beneath her breasts again and gently pushed them up, teasing them as she often did during these moments of lingering loveliness. She looked in her full length mirror at the other end of her flowered luxuriously furnished master bedroom suite; she felt so very fine, stroking, and stretching her long legs way down, lying down, and touchy-feely here and there, tactfully she smiled her way to another lovely climax.

  She really had nothing else to do, and so, she rolled over, and once again over, on her king size bed, and smiled a half-awakened smile as if the world around her were a perpetual May full of the impetuous little sins she always loved to act out. For many years now, she rarely got out of bed before her morning reassurance ritual. She loved to leisurely hold back the time by running her hands all over her still firm body, feeling her stimulating sensuality, all over, every morning, long after her husband had left the house to play out his manly role of husband provider, which, she had to admit, he was pretty good at.

  Loving husband Hank Merker was not a bad guy, and he did the best he could to make her happy, and she really didn’t have any right to complain about him, though she now found vengeful comfort in doing so. At the very minimum her feelings about her husband had become very ambivalent and she blamed him for all her unhappiness but especially for marrying her too soon. He had been her high school sweetheart, of sorts, the meaning of the word implying more of syrupy candy than of love. They had been going steady during their last two years in high school, a period that included a lot of tedious sex for her; she never really understood the significance of the ritual of being exclusively with only one person in a kind of forced coupling called ‘going steady’. Looking back on it, going steady was like out of the Middle Ages, like arranged, forced marriages; for why else would you go steady?

  Well there was the sex part, she thought. It would have been highly amoral to be fucking if you weren’t going steady.

  Not every couple that went steady in high school wound up married, but Sharon and Hank were not your typical couple: he was the star quarterback, and she was the prettiest girl in school, and the gossip had it that they were made for each other, and the whole school expected them to be together forever. It was a twisted fate that in agreement with the expectations of their friends, mindlessly led to their mind-numbing marriage all too soon after high school graduation. Throughout their affairs and marriage, Sharon had searched for some understanding of what was pushing them to wherever they were heading, but Hank’s presence made it difficult for her to foresee. In her mind, he held no promising surprises.

  After their quick marriage, and without ever a hint of complaint, Hank daily did his thing and brought home the bacon in large enough quantities that would have satisfied most wives but not Sharon who had come to desire more than just bacon. And the more he saw that what he was bringing home was unsatisfactory and insufficient for his wife, the greater his efforts to bring home more stuff, though he had no clue what to bring because she never made specific requests, as wives are expected to do. The more he tried to make her happy the less she was impressed. It was a stupid, dull, monotonous life they had built for themselves. Lord forgive her, for many years Sharon had cared little about her husband, and even less for her husband’s successes in the marketplace. He wanted to spoil her with his kindness, but she was responding like a spoiled brat tantrum fits to purposely deny his kindness. In more and more mindless little fights with her husband, she bickered and continuously complained for what she called, out of nowhere, the lack of “culture and adventure” fuelling the emptiness of their bacon bloated lives.

  “I’m losing it, Hank. I’m losing you. There has to be more than this,” she would hopelessly complain in the middle of their fucking.

  “What do you want from me?” poor Hank would huff and puff away.

  “I don’t know, Hank; I just don’t know,” Sharon would absent-mindedly continue to interrupt their coitus. “All I know is that there has to be more than this.”

  “Ugh, baby, it doesn’t get better than this,” he would flatter the fucking drama which was still full of exciting pleasure, as it should be, as he lay on top of Sharon.

  “I love you Hank,” she would murmur, not sure that she meant it.

  “I love you too, babe,” he would conclude, as he walked away to shower.

  It was a life of habitual mumblings since neither of them had anything significant to ever say to each other. She casually trotted past her husband a continuous chatter of juvenile remarks as unattended complaints; they were mindless airs of disordered demands soliciting for more and more of ridiculous nothings from him. At first he had tried to understand her, but her blurred post-adolescent fumbling became formless sounds to his ears and eventually brought poor Hank to his emotional knees. He thought the deficiency was in him, that he lacked the refinement that her baby-soft ass demanded, confusing him further and making her wants, and needs, and wishes indistinguishable. It was all too much, endless, and he tired of her always complaining for no apparent reason, and he eventually gave up listening to her, her voice having lost all its intonation on its way to his ears. Though he never stopped thinking of her as the beautiful woman that she had always been, he had become most irritable of his wife’s bothersome pretensions of always pressing to appear more important than their current status warranted. Neither of them had come close to a college degree but that didn’t prevent Sharon from posturing that she was special, that she was intellectually grander than he or his friends. Her vague inaudible mumbles of dissatisfaction, often delivered without opening her mouth very much, finally convinced Hank to keep away from Sharon and her bullshit sense of self-importance. He gave her everything that he earned, as he had always done in the hope of not losing her, but she had remained numb unappreciative of his generosity. She had become a “dumb broad”, he would confess to his close ex-high school buddies. Every day of the week, he would wake up and leave home early and come home late dreading even those few hours at night that he might have to spend with his beautiful but otherwise miserable wife.

  “She’s full of shit,” he would comfort himself on his way to bring home the bacon.

  Somewhere in shocking quick time, years before, their high school sweetheart souls detached, went their separate ways, and left the married couple speechless. It was a pattern familiar to Sharon, for her parents had also bound themselves speechless in an oppressive life. Hank’s decline and fall from Sharon’s grace, and hers from his, now unconcealed, had been insidiously sneaky in its progression across their cold marbled-covered kitchen floor soon after their childless marriage turned into a miserable cohabitation of meaningless familiarity, assuredly leading their tense way of life to certain collapse. The fast expiration of their union picked up speed and became relentless towards its crash, and all the time frothing frustrating emotions from a crippled past. As awkwardly as their high school marriage had merged from opposite directions, so, likewise, it was now deflating in every direction. During these depressing, grey days, and weeks, and months, and early years, Hank’s only loving attachment to Sharon remained his immature high school sexual fantasy of being married to the prettiest girl in class, for Sharon had remained as beautiful as ever. Depressingly, like her mother’s delayed realization of her pathetic marriage to Anton, for Sharon too, the recognition slowly surfaced with certainty that she was in a bad marriage; that she really never liked let alone loved Hank; that she really hated her husband for all the humiliating real or imagined physical or
emotional abuse he had forced on her, and for taking advantage of her teenage innocence, he the abusive high school star hero, she just a naïve girl trying to fit into the mores of American high school hero worship; and her unforgiving soul would load up with hatred.

  In retrospect, the whole Sharon loves Hank, Hank loves Sharon eulogy, chanted even by her best friends, a monotone predictor, had been dead from the start, and she now felt trapped. Hank was a loser, not a hero, and she wished it weren’t so, but these things happen.

  *

  She tried, but constant belittlement of their intentions would impeded their attempts at understanding. The ambiguous romance that was the energy of their high school days slowly deflated into a patronizing reality full of scorn for each other. She thought she had the brains and he thought she was a cretin. He had been brought up to think, that, if you had a good arm to throw a spiral fifty yards, brains were not necessary to a winning life. From a young girl, she had no huge expectations. Searching for excuses to argue, intellectual disparities, even when not real, were as good as any argument to invade their retreating marriage; and whenever the heart-breaking reality of their predicament set in, dark thoughts further confused their personalities. There was little doubt in her mind that she came from superior cultured stock, as opposed to Hank’s uncouth parentage that valued only football aimed through automobile tires; there was little doubt in his mind that his wife was out of touch with reality.

  Sadly, the youthful fondness for each other’s teenage fumbling sex that had betrayed them to think of their teenage lust as true love would not ever repeat, Sharon and Hank had come to realize. Though Sharon remained the sex kitten that she had been for Hank, he for her had become a huge hangover which she was unable to shake off. Day by day, Hank precariously dangled in a marriage more and more tenuous as he sank from star-athlete lover, to anonymous hot dog kiosk vendor, and then, somehow rebounding, to a major bigtime restaurant entrepreneur. Sharon was mutely indifferent to his successes, and he didn’t quite know why or how, but he was very excited to be making all that money selling roast beef and mash potatoes. Every time he bought a greasy spoon place that his accountant recommended, it made a lot of money for him, until he moved into the major leagues buying multi-million dollar restaurants with real chefs. Hank was pleased to count his money and just watch football on TV with his loyal high school buddies. Everything was going well for the ex-quarterback, except for his marriage to his onetime high school sweetheart.