A Christmas Story, Part 4

Four: Cracks In the Ice

The morning dawns in slow greys. His breathing is a slow and steady rhythmic heat against my neck. One of his arms lies hooked beneath a pillow, the other heavily over my side. His hand rests lightly against my breast. Occasionally, his cock probes my hip or bum with the enthusiasm of a newborn pup.

            Between intermittent dozing, I’ve watched the night retreat, morning rising to a gentle glow against closed curtains. It’s Christmas day. And I’m lying in bed with another man. A full year, now, since I made my escape from Jeremiah Steele’s wrath and, in a few weeks’ time, a full year since Katherine stuck a set of prosthetic breasts to my chest. A full year since my first time in panties and a bra. That first day, I wore a long blonde wig and a tight pair of girl’s jeans and now the hair is real, the tits too and I can’t remember the last time I wore a pair of jeans or trousers.

            Christ, one year only to go from the man I’d been, to—

            “Mm, Kitten.” Mr Connor stirs, snuffles into my neck. He idly fondles my tit, non-too gently in his half-sleep. His cock grows with predictable morning glory. I’m sympathetic—I really am, I feel it too, every morning I wake up with the memory of a boner, though experience it so very differently—but still, I tense under his touch.

            “You okay?”

            I nod, biting down on my lip.

            “Bad dreams?” He’s slowly waking. “You said something about bad dreams last night.”

            He can’t see my grimace but feels my half-hearted shrug.

            Mr Connor withdraws his hand from my boob. He shifts away, so his cock isn’t prodding my backside anymore. The imprint of his touch, the heat of his presence in the bed remains. Part of me wants to run screaming from his bed. Another part wants to hurt him, terribly. Yet at the same time, I suddenly feel cold and alone.

            “Hold me,” I whisper. “Please.”

            He hesitates, then draws me into an embrace.

            A distant part of me knows what’s happening here is wrong. Wrong, and deeply shameful and the longer I submit to this role I’ve accepted for the holidays, the harder it'll be to emerge from it on the other side.

            He thinks he’s got a sexy little thing in his bed, a twenty-year old nymphet exploring new sexual boundaries with her boss. And he does; I am Cindy, and it’s never been easier to submerge myself within her. Granted, these are new and unexpected aspects of her personality we’re discovering, here: the submissiveness, the playfulness—and new pleasures; Christ, the pleasure! By the light of a new day, it’s possible to look back with a little more rationality, still mixed with awe and a little fear. I don’t quite understand what happened last night. Somehow, he spanked me into some kind of freaky headspace and what I felt there was….

            A tingle below. Shit, best not to think about that. I bite my lip. But his hand brushes against my nipple and I stifle a moan. His penis prods me. I must get out of this bed but find myself paralysed. Suddenly, I want him, it—inside of me, deep inside of me. This desire is terrifying. I’m a man—a man, beneath this prosthetic, a man under a layer of silk and satin—with a cock of my own sealed away beneath synthetic flesh and—it, or my body, or more, is responding to his touch, and how can this be? I’m a heterosexual guy, for chrissake, the experiences of this last year notwithstanding. I’ve—performed—and done—stuff no normal guy would ever do, but it’s hardly been a normal year, these aren’t normal circumstances.

            But the argument only carries me so far. It wasn’t any performance that brought me to his bed last night. I wanted—him. I am… attracted to him, to a man. Another man. His touch; the warmth and strength of his body; the tenor of his voice and the firmness of his body under my hand, the tight, compact ass I saw in the shower, gripped in the shower as I knelt under falling water and looked up through sparkling lashes and eagerly took him in my mouth…

            Christ. Am I gay, now?

            No.

            No, of course not. This is Cindy’s ride and Cindy’s a girl. She’s got tits and a pussy and long, pretty nails and a narrow waist and—whatever it is that defines a girl. Cindy’s a girl and therefore so am I, at least for the holidays. There’s nothing homosexual in the intimacy between a man and a woman, or in enjoying his… touch.

            I picture myself as—myself—as my other self, as male, as David, lying in bed with this man—this other man—with Michael Connor, much as we are now. His arms wrap around me, we’re both naked. One hand sits with casual intimacy against my chest and instead of rounded softness, the fullness of D-cup tits, he finds firm pectorals, small nipples ringed with hairs. His penis prods a slim and firm ass. His touch drifts across a defined stomach, solid with muscle, and slides through a tuft of short and wiry hairs to curl around my cock. His fingers tickle my balls, slides up the shaft, cups the head and his breath warms my ear as he leans in close for a kiss. I push my bum back, feel him slide along my crack. His face is next to mine and his hair is short and so is mine. No earrings get in the way. Short eyelashes close rather than flutter as I lean back into his kiss, stubble against stubble….

            Fuck.

            Where’s the shudder of disgust? I’m not feeling it, just a profound sense of contentment. The sense of my male self slips away. Once again, I am soft and curvy in his arms, happily so, and I tilt my head to kiss him. He kisses me in return, long and lingering, soon growing deeper and more passionate. I smile and sigh and his tongue pushes between my parted lips.

            And yet—

            Detaching myself, I turn to face him. Eying him contemplatively, I imagine wider eyes, defined cheekbones, a more delicate nose. Summoning the image of Mr Connor as a woman comes with startling ease, I see her vividly. This hypothetical Mrs Connor, she is slim, toned without bulk. She hits the gym, works the treadmill, keeps herself in shape. Her thighs are strong, her belly flat despite—why not?—having pushed out a kid, maybe two. Bright eyes sparkle with wry humour born of a lifetime of challenges very different in tenor to a man’s experience. Her breasts are full—but not too large, a C-cup, still firm despite her age, topped with lovely, pink nipples. Shoulder-length blonde hair, dyed tastefully, and thin lips, a strong chin.

            Michelle—no, Michaela, let’s remember those Czech roots—calls herself Misa with friends—she’s sexy but severe. Pencil skirts for work, shiny silk blouses in bold primary colours, maybe a flouncy bow or some heavy jewelry as a flourish. A little mannish but not masculine, and under her clothes a predilection for expensive and elaborate lingerie with exquisite detailing, a hidden indulgence. She enjoys this hidden femininity, the constraint and control, the constant tug of garters and grip of a bustier. Misa’s very conscious of her prestige and privilege, having fought hard for every single achievement in her life. The fine lines that score her face and crinkle the corner of her eyes attest to the hardness of this life. She bears these wrinkles with pride, though she also takes a secret but shameful pleasure in what she believes is frivolous artistry: her makeup is meticulously and skillfully applied, always.

            A life of restraint and rigorous self-discipline carried her to corporate success, and unable to relinquish control, her relationships with men rarely endure—she, too, is divorced. In secret, she yearns to—relax, on occasion, with someone she trusts and give up that authority, that control and allow someone else to take charge at home, and especially in bed.

            God, she’s lovely this woman of the mind, and I reach out to stroke her cheek, pass my thumb over her lip, and imagine her sucking my fingers, smiling around the tips, her eyes glinting mischievously. Instead, my touch finds the stubble of an unshaven chin. My hands roam across her—his—chest, seeking soft curves and a narrow waist. My hips twitch. I am—excited and feel briefly terribly confused and equally aroused.

            I don’t know if I want to fuck or be fucked by this woman, or even to be this woman. It’s too much for early morning and so I laugh and shake my head; she is gone.

            Or is she? For in Michael, I still see a shadow of the imagined self laid over him. He’s sitting up in bed, bedsheets across his lap tented by his erection. He’s all man, but Misa came from somewhere. That glimpse of the woman he could be provides with startling clarity an insight into his needs.

            Curious, he smiles indulgently at me. “What’s so funny?”

            “Nothing,” I say and then immediately add, “I was just thinking.”

            “About?”

            “What to give you for Christmas,” and with a little grin rest my hand over his erection.

            The room remains dim but grows ever brighter. On the nightstand by his side of the bed is a clock. It reads a little past 7am. Next to it sits a condom in its foil wrapper. Last night, I glimpsed the room briefly in shades of black and grey. Now, with my hand gently massaging his cock through cotton bedsheets, I pick out the large wardrobe, furniture in heavy wood, the freestanding mirror in the corner. The little touches suggestive of a woman’s presence: a decorative vase in beige and pink in the corner; the vanity dressing table with its mirror, little drawers, gilt legs and cluster of pots and tubes. Curious, that she left her makeup behind. I’m reminded that for twenty years, he shared this bed with another woman, a woman called Rose. There’s a framed photo of her on the dresser, another on the wall from what must be their wedding with her wearing white, a long dress not dissimilar to the one I tried on for Julia all those months ago.

            Now he touches me through the silk slip, and it feels—nice, the smooth coolness of his hand as he strokes my back, my breast, slowly draws his thumb across a nipple. My nipples tighten, growing hard and fat under his touch and a little jolt of pleasure shoots up my spine. He strokes my side, my thigh, his hand glides up beneath the slip, over my tummy and cups my breast. His touch through silk felt delightful, but skin on skin is even better. With each touch he guides me, turning me so that I face away and then draws me into his lap. His thumb flicks the hard nub of my nipples, drawing a happy whimper from my lips. He tugs at the slip. I raise my arms. The delicate straps disappear over my head, he strips his gift away and now I’m topless, and so is he, our naked torsos pale in the dim light. He’s breathing a little more rapidly and there’s something dark in his eyes. I’m breathing faster, too. The earlier doubts disappear, I’m not thinking about whether this is gay or not or right or wrong but only that it feels wonderful, his touch feels good it feels so good and it feels good that he wants to touch me. This man desires me and judging by the erect dick podding me from below, he’s put his own doubts aside, too.

            For a few minutes, we stay like that, we kiss with me on his lap and his hands roaming across my naked torse, then tugging at the sleep shorts, and I respond in kind, catch his hands, bring his fingers to my lips, suck on his fingertips. The shorts are down around my knees now, I twist in his lap to face him even as I kick them away. He’s fully naked too, always was, sleeps the way I used to, once long ago. My fingers curl around his cock. It’s hot and hard beneath my touch, I feel it bob in anticipation. He nibbles at my collarbone, lips a little wet. His hand are back at my tits, rougher now. He’s breathing is short, heavy pants now. So am I. I want this. So does he. It’s Christmas. Fuck it, it's Christmas and this is a gift we both want.

            Reaching across, I take the condom from his nightstand and tear the wrapper. With practiced ease, I roll it down his penis. It twitched in my palm. He smiles. Then, I straddle him. With both palms flat on his chest, I give him a firm shove. His eyes widen, his smile a little uncertain now, he falls back and if anything, he’s even harder than before. I hover over him. He’s still latched on to my tits, kneading, fingers curling into flesh. Blonde hair falls in waves across his chest, tickles our skin. None too gently, I take his wrists and force them back onto the pillow on either side of his head. He’s surprised, pushes back but I force his arms down and pin him there. He’s confused, maybe displeased with me taking charge—but the cock beneath me isn’t. I remain poised, there’s no space at all between us, really, a few centimeters between labia lips and penis. He’s ready. So am I. Every so slowly, I lower myself to impale myself on this man’s dick. I want this. I do, I want him inside me. I feel his hardness brush against my lips. God, I’m wet, I’m so fucking horny, I want this. A little lower, slowly, I feel him pushing in, I gasp, cockhead parting pussy lips, sliding into me and—

            A shudder tears through me.

            God—no, not now—

            Sudden horror seizes me. My stomach clenches and I feel sick. My skin crawls at his presence; I remember his hands at my breast, rude and rough; and the thing penetrating me like some hideous worm, writhing and wiggling its blind way into me.

            In the intimacy of Mr Connor’s touch, in the full-body, flesh-on-flesh contact that only moments ago seemed so pleasurable, I feel a wrenching, twisted echo of the past: Julia and Caleb and Tom. I remember unwanted hands holding me firm by the waist; the cock gagging me, spit and tears, struggling to breath; the implacable pressure from behind, penetrating, invading.

            He’s watching me closely, sees the revulsion on my face. He looks hurt, confused, concerned. I can’t—be near him—I release him and dismount. The feeling of his touch lingers. I’m gasping for breath, tumble to the floor in a tangle of bedsheets. Desperate, gripped by fear and disgust, I stumble for the door.

            He calls out, “Cindy!”

            Stopping at the threshold of the room, I take a deep, stabilizing breath. Momentarily, I feel dizzy, though the immediate desire to throw up passes. I look back over my shoulder and try to force a smile for him but what emerges is—unpleasant, a parody of a smile. “I’m sorry,” I say. My grip on the doorframe is tight and my body trembles. I want to hurt him, terribly; or maybe it’s myself I want to hurt. “I’m sorry.”

            I flee. I race to the bathroom. It’s the one opposite my room. Up the flight of stairs, past the framed photos capturing the lie of a happy family. I lock the door and sit on the toilet and hold me face in my hands. Eventually, the shaking subsides. So do the tears. After, I’m left feeling empty. Gradually, that fades, too until embarrassment creeps over me, and then disappointment. I listen carefully but hear nothing outside the door.

            Memories of that night have grown less frequent but just as with flickers of my former masculinity, crippling flashes of recollection embody me in the moment. The horror of that evening still haunts me. Truth is, much of that night’s a blank. Between the booze and the drugs, anxiety and trauma, it’s all a bit blurry. The moments I remember are flashes, impressions of—hands on skin—the rough exploitation of my body by male hands—sharp bites, mauled tits, pinched nipples, pain—a slap to my ass—a cock shoved between my lips—ache in my jaw—an agony of penetration—suspended, between two men.

            These fragments revisit when least expected. Standing in line at the grocery shop. Sitting quietly on the bus on the way to work. After work cocktails with the girls—everything fine, it’s all okay, giggles and good times—and then—the sensation draws over me like a funeral blanket, an appalling creeping horror stealing my breath. My stomach twists and I’m left pale and speechless. When possible, I flee—like now—and hide in the bathroom until I recover.

            Sometimes, the trigger is predictable. Around men—other men—their open stares, ass-tits-lips, the intimate knowledge of what they’d do to me, if they could, the crude comments, not always whispered behind my back or hidden. Worse, every man’s touch now seems to embody that night and brings with it the trembling revulsion that curdles my insides.

            I’m in the shower, now. It’s much smaller, the one opposite my room, but stocked with clearly feminine products: floral shampoo, conditioner, a pink razor. It’s Lily’s bathroom. The shower’s as hot as I can stand, a bit beyond that, really. The scalding water stings but also feels good, I need this and welcome the pain. Raising my head into the stream, I stand there until my flesh is pink and tender. Then I soap and scrub until the skin is raw and the memory of that night fades. After, fingertips wrinkles and my skin feels taut and dry. But by the time I reach the bedroom, I’m feeling much better. He hasn’t laid any clothes out on the bed, so I slip on a pair of panties and grab a snuggly terrycloth robe hanging on a hook on the door. With a towel wrapped around my hair, I head downstairs.

            He sits in the kitchen with a large mug of coffee. It reads, ‘World’s Best Dad’. His back is towards me. There’s a view over the back yard. Little birds dance around the birdfeeder. The ground is white and the sky a beautiful, clear blue. Almost instantly, I feel the anxiety of the morning rise from my shoulders and a little bubble of joy rise as I watch him. My smile is genuine as I approach him. I just wish I’d put on at least a little makeup before coming downstairs, and after that shower I’m desperate to dab on some moisturizer.

            I touch his shoulder. He doesn’t respond for a moment, then without turning rests his hand over mine. We stay like that for a short while, with me standing behind him, hand on shoulder, looking out over the white grass and frosted wood fences. Eventually Mr Connor sighs. He guides me to the seat opposite. I sit, he stands, pours me a cup of coffee, adds a splash of milk and passes it to me. His face is grave. He’s unhappy.

            “We need to talk,” he says. He flexes his right hand as he says this, and with the fingers of the other hand massages his palm. It’s the hand he used to spank me. Over the rim of my cup of coffee, I watch him. Eyes the colour of storm clouds betray uncertainty in a face struggling to maintain its composure. “Are you okay?” he eventually asks.

            I give a quick, short nod.

            “Did I hurt you?” He reorients his mug, turning the handle perpendicular to me. “Did I push you too far?”

            I consider this for a moment. “You hurt me,” I say. “You didn’t push me too far.”

            A little knot between his eyes furrows his brow. “I need to know if—”

            I hold my hand up. “A man hurt me, not long ago.”

            His face contorts, and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

            “This was a few months ago,” I continue. “Just before Halloween. I was… how to put it?—you know those boundaries last night, the ones we both said we’re exploring? Let’s just say I explored them. An evening with a man—an older man, about your age, actually—that I knew, or thought I knew. And it wasn’t just the two of us. At the end of the night, after a lot of drinking and—other stuff—we ended up in an apartment and—things happened. Things I wasn’t ready for.” In halting, heavy words, I share with Mr Connor a version of what happened. It’s the first I’ve spoken out loud about that night. Speaking about it is painful. Most of it I couch in vague terms, but its clear from his frown, his clenched jaw, that’s whatever he’s picturing in his head, it’s not too far off from reality.

            “So, yeah,” I finish. “I want to say it was consensual? But looking back, I don’t know that I can say it was. Like, I knew what was happening, and what was going to happen, or at least what I thought might happen. At any point, I could have said ‘no’, you know? And walked away. But I didn’t. Like, I could have? But also, I couldn’t.” I laugh with forced cheerfulness. “I guess that doesn’t make sense, huh?”

            Then, my strained smile falters. I remember standing in the women’s bathroom at Circe’s. Julia promises, threatens. Stay, this is what happens; leave if you want, I’ll tell Tom. Fear, pulling me both ways, and over it all shame. Either Tom discovers his date for the night, this cute twenty-year-old nymphet is really his old drinking buddy squeezed into a tight dress; or my old drinking buddy shoves his tongue down my throat, his hand up my dress, and shove his cock—wherever he wants.

            In a strained voice, Mr Connor says, “I’m sorry.”

            I take a sip of coffee, holding the cup with both hands. “Don’t be. And so, this morning, it wasn’t about you. I hope you can believe that? In bed with you, I felt—cared for. And excited. I wanted to—do—that with you. I did. I really did. And I wanted to make you feel good, too. But that experience, it—hurt me, okay? Broke something, and it’s still healing.

            “The girls, you know? My friends, they don’t know. I haven’t told anyone about this, haven’t talked about that night. But you can imagine, right, my friends, they’ve picked up that something’s not quite right and so--they kinda hooked me up with different guys a few times, forced me out on a couple of dates. Well intentioned, right? They didn’t know. And I tried.” I blink and suddenly realise I’m crying again. “But all I got out of it was—I mean, every time I’m with a guy, and—he touches me, I—” I hug myself. “I—it twists my stomach. I lock up.” Tears flow freely now. I blink to clear them, pass the back of my hand across my eyes. “I—remember—feel that night—like I’m there again, and—” I hold my hands to my stomach, press down hard against the pain there and shake my head. “I can’t.”

            Outside, a bird lands on an ornamental pond. The surface is frozen.  It flaps precariously over the ice, a feathered brown bundle. It’s little beak pecks at a crack, seeking water. I watch it in silence and take the tissue he passes me.

            “You said this happened, before Halloween?” Mr Connor asks.

            I sniff, nod my head.

            “The night of the party, you and I—”

            “Yes.”

            “In my office. I—touched you….” He trails off, and a look of horror twists his face. “God, did I—”

            “No!” My cry surprises us both. I blush, lean forward to take his hand in mine, not minding that my robe falls open, boobs hanging free. “That night in your office. Yesterday, in the shower. And God, last night after dinner, when you—” I blush, cheeks flaming red. “It felt good, okay? With other men—” I shudder. “With you, it’s different.” I drop my gaze, speak softly. “I don’t know why.”

            The chair scrapes against kitchen tiling as he shifts his chair closer, until he’s sat next to me. I don’t let go of him as he comes around the table. He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb, hesitates, looks at me. I nod. He resumes.

            “I’m sorry,” he says.

            “Like I said, not your fault,” I say.

            “We should stop,” he says. “What we’re doing here. This isn’t healthy, for you, probably for me.”

            “No!” My reply is vehemently forceful. He raises an eyebrow, and I continue, forcing myself to speak calmly. “No. You don’t—no. I’ve felt—disconnected—from my own body. For months.” I slip my hand free from his, pass it along my bare arm, tug the robe partly closed. I hold my hand to my chest. “Afraid, in my own skin. Sometimes hating myself. Sometimes—feeling the touch of that night—so vividly I could…” Scream; or muffle the memory with a pillow, dull it with drink, or—erase it with dreams of violence.

            “But last night. I won’t lie, it was a little scary. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like—myself. I mean, like a better version of myself. You make me feel good. I feel good.”

            He looks at me. His throat works with unspoken emotion. In his eyes, there is doubt—and also anger—but mostly concern. There is also a glimmer of—excitement, that perhaps even he can’t acknowledge. Mr Connor says nothing. Instead, he reaches for me, draws me into his arms, onto his lap, and holds me. His arms are tight around me and for an instant, I tense up—and then release a shuddering breath—and yield to his caress. I melt in his arms. “You are good,” he whispers in my ear. “A good girl.”

            And suddenly, I cry.

            Fuck me, do I ever. I cry like a battered child, like a lover whose lost their love. It’s a total release, long coming, and maybe as David I could’ve kept it bottled up, strapped down and buried, but Cindy has license to let it out and dear God, does she ever. I cry for—all sorts of things—and gradually these deep wrenching sobs give way to a steady trickle of hot, heavy tears dribbling down my cheeks, dripping from chin, staining his top dark. Through it all, Mr Connor hold me. His hand is at my back, reassuring. The other hand strokes my hair, comforting. He tucks stray bangs from my face, passes me tissue when I need it.

            Eventually, I stop. Instead of the expected mortification, I just feel—tired. He strokes my face. I return a watery smile.

            “Better?” he asks.

            “No,” I say. “Not yet. But I’ll get there, I think.” I lean closer and press my lips to his cheek, softly. “Thank you.”

            He accepts the kiss stoically.

            Outside, the sun is fully risen. The surface of the frozen pond is broken and through cracks in the ice, water burbles to the surface. A small flock of birds rings the pond, drinking. The snow glistens with melt, and outside it is so beautiful it makes me ache a little, inside.

            “We should go for a walk,” I say.

            “Breakfast first,” he says.

            Suddenly, I realise I’m famished. Crying, I realise, takes a lot out of you—and I swear, I’ve spilled more tears in the past year than the previous forty combined. All this emotions stuff, it’s exhausting.

            “Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed,” he says, and gives my bum a little slap. “I’ll sort us out something to eat.”

            “Mr Connor!” I say. “Absolutely not. Breakfast is a woman’s responsibility, don’t you think?”

            “Uh, no,” he says. “I don’t, actually.”

            “Can you cook?”

            “Does cereal count?”

            “No, it does not.” I tap him on the nose. “So how about you take a shower and dress yourself in something nice, and so will I, and then I’ll whip us up something good to eat.”

            He studies me for a moment. There is such concern there it nearly makes me cry again. “Are you sure?” he asks, and if only he knew how little I deserve his concern, or his care.

            I nod.

            A smile plays across his lips. “Wear the red dress. The one with polka dots. And the matching shoes.”

            A little frisson sweeps through me, and I give a little clap of glee. “Oh, I was hoping you’d pick that one.”

            Twenty minutes later, dress on, face on, I’m back downstairs and stirring up homemade pancakes. With every movement, the red homemaker dress with white polka dots swirls around my knees, and my heels click on the tiled kitchen floor. Mr Connor’s at the table, watching. I haven’t worn this dress since Julia and I went separate ways. Putting it on, I am reminded of the funeral, of the first time I wore it for her, and the times in between. Haunted by a vague sense of nostalgia, I lightly stir sugar, baking powder and salt into the flour, then whisk together milk, egg and oil.

            Meanwhile, the pan’s heating up. After folding the liquid into the dry ingredients, I gently wet the flour without breaking it down. Soon, the first batch is sizzling in the pan, strips of bacon under the grill and a pair of plates warming in the oven. Once the batter begins to bubble, I flip it over. The whole time, I’m humming something indistinct, probably Sin-DI, as I flutter around the stove, feeling—happy; happier than I have in a long time. It’s nearly euphoric, like the giddy sense of relief after a lengthy illness passes. There’s pleasure in the sensation of the dress and its silky sweep against stockings, the smell of the pancakes, the heavy weight of his gaze watching my every motion. I’m enjoying the performance of cooking for someone other than myself. I’m enjoying being—me.

            At the same time, I recall the past. Standing at the stove with—Catrin Isla Mia Aisha Zola—in bed, nestled close, on the sofa, at the table, naked, bleary eyed, freshly showered, topless. I’m wearing boxers, nothing else, muscular compact frame flecked with scars, groin heavy from fucking. One-night stands, each of them, the girls who lingered in the morning. I remember them—shaved head blue eyed bald pussy foul-mouthed belly scarred—and others too, rolling back through the years to the very start of David, a cavalcade of conquests collected from singles bars, late night dives, classy clubs, all meaningless but for the brief pleasure we tore gasping from each other.

            “I like them crispy,” a droll voice interrupts, “but maybe not that crispy?”

            I start, laugh, flip the pancake.

            Soon, there’s a pile ready in the oven. I serve up fluffy pancakes and crisp bacon, find some authentic Canadian maple syrup in the pantry—expensive stuff these days, like gold dust—pour out coffee, apple juice, and finally settle with a flounce in the chair opposite. Mr Connor’s smiling, and his smile makes me feel good.

            “What do you think?” There’s a genuine twist of anxiety in my tummy.

            His first bite in tentative, like he can’t quite believe a twenty-year-old’s going to serve up decent food. Eyes wide with surprise, he speaks around the fork in his mouth: “good!” He swallows. “Really good.” He stabs another pancake and drops it on his plate. “Where’d you learn to make these?”

            I tap the side of my nose. “Family secret.” Then I laugh and tell him how my mom taught me to cook, in the few years we had between me being old enough and her death. She didn’t have much time for me, but she had time to teach me to cook. Best way to a man’s heart, she said, is through his stomach, even though she rarely cooked herself. All lies, of course, I can cook because I took a course, years ago, and because it’s a good way to melt the panties off a girl; women love a guy who can cook. Also, I enjoy it. But for all I know, my story is also true. It feels true, and often that’s better than reality.

            By the time I’m done my story, Mr Connor’s polishing off the final strip of bacon and I’m dabbing delicately at the corner of my lip with a napkin.

            He pushes back from the table. I start collecting the plates. When I reach his side of the table, his arms slip around my waist. I give a little yelp of surprise, and giggle breathlessly. Next thing, I’m on his lap. “I could’ve watched you flutter around up there all day,” he says. “You play at housewife so well.”

            I twist in his lap to face him. “Who says I’m playing?”

            He grins. His hand rubs my thigh, pushes back my dress, strokes my leg over smooth stockings and finds the garter straps. His smile grows, as does another part of him. “I love these on a woman,” he says. “It’s funny. Rose wouldn’t wear them. Hated them, said they were too fiddly, or she felt objectified. But I always thought they were sexy, but sexy in a kind of old-fashioned way. I doubt my mother wore them. Maybe my grandmother’s generation? Probably even further back than that.” He shrugs. “But you young girls, you’re mad for them. I’ve seen them in the shops, the ones for younger women, in the ads. In the market research V.I.’s done. Not just the belts, there’s been a real surge in all sorts of shapewear, a lot of it BDSM-inspired. I’m very happy to see you wearing one.” His finger traces a metal clip thoughtfully. “But are you don’t mind?” His brow furrows with thought. “I guess what I’m asking, are you wearing it for me? Or for yourself?”

            “Why not both?” I lay my hand over his, gentle guide his touch along welt and garter, lead his fingers to paddle at the bare thigh above. “They are a pain,” I say, “though not so much once you get used to it. First time—” which is not nearly as long ago as he might think, whether forty-year-old David or twenty-year-old Cindy— “it took me ages to get these little clips at the back, strapping into this kind of thing too forever.”

            Shifting slightly, I take his hand to the back of my thigh, where he finds the rear clip. His hand cups my bum, squeezes and I give a contented little wiggle.  “But isn’t that the point? The effort: because you’re worth it.” I poke him in the chest, somewhat playfully, though hard enough for him to take it seriously. “That’s what the work dress code indicates, anyway. You know, the one you signed off on.”

            He winces. “For what it’s worth, I opposed the new dress code. That came from above.”

            “But you like it.”

            He tugs on a garter strap, lets it snap back against my thigh. “Yes. I do.”

            A sigh at the tiny sting, its subtle humiliation. Again, my hand rests over his and, Ouija board-like, is it his will or mine that guides his adept fingers between my thighs? Through the slim barrier of satin and lace, he touches me. I sigh louder, clamp my legs down around his touch.

            “If we start this now,” he says, voice thrumming with amusement. “We’ll never get out of the house.”

            I bite my lip, nod, unclench my legs and release his hand. It’s embarrassing how quickly, how easily this man excites me. We bundle up warm. He asks if I’ve got any suitable shoes. By his slightly mocking tone, he already knows the answer. Depends on what you consider suitable, I answer, a little irritated. Suitable for the office, and suitable for the dancefloor. Suitable for a slinky cocktail dress. Suitable, I say, pressing up against him, for kneeling and bending backwards, grabbing stiletto heels and arcing your back as you stare up at your man.

            “How about suitable for a walk in the snow?” he asks, with a wry smile.

            “Not so much,” I say.

            He finds me a pair of boots that just about fit, a pair of Lily’s she outgrew years ago. It’s Lily’s coat too, long with a belt, pale pink with fur trim, and wrapped up warm with a scarf, woolly hat and gloves, we step out into the late morning sun. It’s nearly noon and the sky still a brilliant blue dotted with wisps of drifting clouds, and what’s left of the snow in the back yard sparkles. It’s mostly in patches now, melting under bright sun. Leaving through the back gate, he leads me onto a little trail that cuts through the woods behind the house.

            Here, the snow remains thicker on the ground and crunches underfoot. Light dapples through branches overhead and the air is crisp and clean. The path is almost unwalkable in the summer, Mr Connor says—too much growth, and the mosquitos eat you alive. He walks a little ahead, talking over his shoulder at me. Scooping up a handful of snow, I shape a snowball and throw it at him. I miss—deliberately?—digging a trough in the ground at his feet. He stops, turns and wags his finger at me. I stick my tongue out at him and scoop up another handful of snow. Don’t, he warns, eyebrows knitting together. I laugh, throw and the snow explodes in powder across his chest. I warned you, he says, and next thing he’s scooped me up in his arms. I squeal in delight, kick my legs. He drops me in a snowbank. Snow trickles down my neck and I yelp. He laughs, goes to step away. I hook his ankle with my foot and pull him down, he falls next to me in the snow. I leap onto him, he grabs me in a bear hug, we roll in the snow and he’s laughing too and my face is pink and cold and then we kiss—a long one—until he sneaks another handful of snow down my back.

            “Bastard!” I cry, laughing, standing, flapping out my coat.

            “Language, young lady,” he says, grinning. “Your behaviour—”

            “Most unbefitting a lady?”

            “Indeed.”

            “Yeah, well, you didn’t invite a lady around, did you?”

            He considers that for a moment, head tilted in that way he has for indicating thinking. “No, I suppose not,” he says. “And thank God for that.”

            He takes my hand, then, and we walk on. For some time, we walk in silence. The sunlight filtering through the canopy of branches glints off drips of melting ice, and the snow in front of us dances with shadows. Other footsteps cross ours: other Christmas day walkers, but also dog paw prints, and other animals. “Deer,” he says, pointing to a cloven pair of prints, and bird scratches in the snow hop across the path.

            Soon, I unwrap my scarf and take off the gloves, warming with the effort of walking through snow. It’s idyllically beautiful out here. The silence is reassuring, but so are the signs of other life leading their simple existence out of sight. I peer through the trees, most barren in the winter, and see nothing but tangled undergrowth, brambles, a few open spaces between trees shimmering with sunlight. Then, we turn a corner and for a moment I can’t see, blinded by the sun reflected off snow.

            The ground dips to a large clearing, in which sits a small frozen lake ringed by trees with a tiny island near the middle. There’s a wooden bench, and Mr Connor leads me over to it. According to a metal plaque, the bench was placed here in loving memory of Cecilia over a decade ago. Others have sat here today. We sit in silence. Somewhere in the distance, a lonely bird caws. Footprints ring the pond, and dog prints dart in and out of the underbrush, occasionally out onto the lake. Patches of ice gleam towards the centre but at the edge dark water flows sluggishly beneath the broken surface.

            “This is the first year,” Mr Connor says. “We’ve lived here fifteen years, and every year I’ve come out here and cut down a tree for the living room. Just a small one. We’re not supposed to, of course. But everybody does it. Rose and I and then when she was big enough, Lily and me. I’d drag it back on a sled and set it up in the living room, and we’d decorate it as a family. Even last year, when things were already bad, we came together for Christmas.” His voice is slow, and the muscle in his jaw works as he speaks, but there is neither anger nor sadness in his voice. A hint of nostalgia, perhaps. “Lily and I, we’d explore these woods in the winter. They go back for miles. There’s an old disused rail line out there, they tore up the rails years ago and there’s this straight path running for miles. We used to walk for hours. When she was younger, it was an adventure. When she was older, we were just together. We might talk. Or not. But we were together.”

            He sighs. “We’re putting the house up for sale in the new year.” His gaze sweeps across the little lake and the snow-flecked trees standing tall against the blue horizon. “I’m going to miss this place,” he says.

            We sit there for a little longer. My bum goes cold on the wooden bench. He shakes his head, as if waking up. “I’m not sure what I should be feeling right now,” he says. “Am I sad? Do I feel guilty?” He turns to me, grey eyes staring into me. “I think I feel guilty, because I’m having fun, Cindy, more fun than I’ve had in a very long time. Having you here… I’m happy. I’m happy, but do I deserve to be? I’ve fucked up everything I spent the last twenty years building. I’m a pervert who prefers the company of girls half his age. I’m…”

            I silence him by placing my finger against his lips. I stroke his cheek, hold his hand, kiss his fingers. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe you are those things. I don’t know. But for what it’s worth, yesterday, this morning—right now—I’m happy, too. And maybe I don’t deserve it either. It’s like, the world sucks and there’s all these terrible things going on, and all these really bad people out there, too. And maybe I’m one of them, I often feel like I’m one of them. And how can the two of us sitting here right now possibly matter?” I cup his face between my hands, feel the cold skin under my warm touch. I kiss him on the lips. He kisses me back. “But it does, somehow. Maybe we don’t deserve happiness, but just maybe it’s okay if we make someone else happy? Because you do, you know, you make me—happy—and feel good—about myself.” I cuddle in close to him and lay my head against his chest. “And I hope the way you make me feel also makes you happy. Because isn’t that what matters the most? Not our own joy, but the joy we bring to others?”

            He holds me, takes a deep breath and I swear his body is wracked by a terrible shudder. I wonder if he’s crying but don’t want to embarrass him by looking. It’s okay for me to cry openly, I’m a girl or at least pretending to be one, and I respect his need to mourn privately, even if in the company of someone else. He strokes my hair, grips my shoulder, squeezes it tightly. The sun overhead shines down brightly on us, feels hot against the back of my neck. Suddenly, in the silence of the clearing, a single, a loud crack echoes loudly. Towards the centre of the lake, the ice breaks, hairline fractures spreading towards the shore. Then everything is quiet once more.

            Eventually, he whispers, “thank you, Cindy.”

            I squeeze his hand again.

            “I want to show you something,” he says.

            He leads me around the little lake and down a little path, to a tall evergreen standing tall by the edge of the woods. Sheltered from the sun, it’s still dusted with snow. Christmas baubles hang from its branches. The glimmer in a rainbow of colours. He explains that every year, people from the neighbourhood come and place decorations on the tree. A bit of a local tradition, he adds, been going on as long as he’s lived here. This will be his last time. He smiles, reaches into his pocket and retrieves a Christmas ball, eggshell white with pink details. I saw it and thought of you, he says, and places it in my hand.

            I stare at it for a long moment before hanging it from a low branch on the tree.

            Stepping back, I look up at the tree and I’m suddenly reminded of another tree, several months ago, a pear tree back at the Clinic. In that fruit of that tree I saw—myself, the potential futures of different Cindys, the women I would never and could never be: sparkling and fun, flirting and dancing; demure and quiet; secretary or girlboss; single or girlfriend or dressed in white, veiled and beautiful.

            Now, in the shimmer of pale winter light on Christmas baubles, other lives once unimagined beckon and wink. Homemaker and wife—not the ecstasy of bridal fantasy but the long reality that follows—domestic peace, a lifetime of drifting through a house too large for one, breakfast, tidying, the welcoming kiss gifted a man returning home from a long day’s work. Or a life spent together, the constant companionship of someone loved and trusted, comfort and casual joy. Even, glimpsed only dimly and distantly, veiled in frost, a young woman with hands rested serenely on a belly rounded with new life.

            Mr Connor holds me close as we gaze upon the tree.

            “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

            Not trusting myself to speak, I nod.

            “You’re shaking,” he says.

            “Let’s go back,” I whisper.

            He looks down at me. “Cindy?”

            “Please.” My voice catches in my throat.

            We walk in silence. My eyes water under the glare of the sun. The whole way back, I yearn for something dimly understood. I tug hard at my hair and turn over and over the same impossible, incoherent thoughts.