Augusta, Georgia
Congratulations, Caryl!
Caryl’s Bio:
Caryl Cain Brown has been writing for years—just not fiction. With BBA and MBA degrees to her credit, Caryl’s nearly thirty-year career in higher education marketing has yielded a wealth of press releases, magazine articles, newsletters, and brochure copy. Now with two grown sons, she’s begun to try her hand at new things: writing fiction, drawing, and learning major home improvement skills.
This is Caryl’s second fiction contest submission ever, but it probably won’t be her last. She lives and writes in Georgia.
Stolen Moment
“Want some tea?” he asks.
I nod and follow him into the kitchen, careful to keep a proper distance.
She's watching. When she's watching we can barely make eye contact, much less any other kind. Which is ridiculous. She's fourteen. She should understand. Maybe she does. But she doesn't like me. Well, maybe not me in particular. Probably anyone he wanted.
“Can you get the mugs?” he asks, putting the kettle on.
He does things the old fashioned way. I would use the microwave. His way is better. It takes longer. I reach for the cups. He opens the cabinet and pulls out the sugar. I'm sure the way his hip brushes mine is no accident and I give him a sideways glance. He smiles without looking at me. I smile at the mugs.
He's such a kind man. Soft spoken. Gentle. Intelligent. He knows so much about so many things. I love to talk to him, to hear him think. And he treats me as if I'm intelligent, too, really listening to me.
Except when it comes to her.
“It was a pretty day, wasn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes it was,” I agree as he strokes my arm and asks me with his eyes to follow him across the room.
“I think it's supposed to rain tomorrow,” he says, pulling me with him into the corner by the stove. She can't see us here.
This is nuts. It's been three years. This can't possibly work if he's going to let her control us like this. I should leave. But I've been with another who didn’t love or respect me. This man does. I'm sure he does. He says he does.
We just don't talk about it, this hard place he's in, between her and me.
He draws me into his arms for a lingering kiss, his hands and mine slipping defiantly into dangerous territory. I melt against him, all thought of leaving—now or ever—evaporating.
“Daddy?” she calls.
We jump apart as if she'd walked into the room. Running a hand through his hair, he smiles sheepishly. Maybe this is what drives him. The thrill of the game. Cheating, but not. The heady feeling of getting away with something.
Maybe it's why I stay.
“Yes?” he answers, his eyes twinkling other messages at me.
“Can you bring me a Coke when you come back?”
“Sure, hon. Be right there.”
The teakettle squeals. He reaches for me, but I step away. This is nuts. He's made his choice. I should leave.
We steep the tea and pour the Coke and gather the mugs and head back into the den. I'm careful to keep a proper distance.
***