Vix

STAY COOL.  DON’T STARE.  Don’t stare.

No matter how hard I fight, I lose.  My eyes drift to the mess of chocolate brown hair tussled on top of her head and I think of grabbing it and dragging her like a Neanderthal back to my cave.

I take a sidestep, trying to adjust my gait as my cock grows down the leg of my pants.  Tearing my eyes from her, I scan the room, spot my mother and head her way.

“Hi, Mom.”  I lean down and kiss her on the cheek.  “You’re more beautiful every day.”

Her milky blue eyes narrow and she reaches up to pinch my beard and give it a tug.  “You’re full of shit, you know that?” 

“Yes.  I know I am, Mom.” I agree, as I most always do with whatever she says these days. 

Her dementia has changed her in so many ways. When I was a kid she rarely wore make-up.  Now every day it’s cherry-red lipstick, two streaks of rouge on her cheeks, Marilyn Monroe eyeliner and eight strands of cultured pearls around her neck.

She’s a geriatric Coco Channel in drag queen make-up, with a ball of yarn in her lap.

She’s always knitting something, a habit that’s stayed with her through all the changes. Although now-a-days, most of her creations look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Another of the most entertaining, albeit embarrassing, changes is her complete lack of filter.  Until about a year ago, I’d heard her curse a handful of times in my entire life, now four-letter words are part and parcel of nearly every sentence.

One important thing I’ve come to understand is you don’t argue with someone suffering from dementia.  Their reality is as real to them as yours or mine, and you’re not going to win anyway.  She’s got the tenacity of a toddler, peppered with moments containing a lifetime of wisdom. Let them have their little world and their delusions, who the fuck cares?

Besides, I am full of shit sometimes.

“You come to hear the piano girl?”  She raises her drawn on eye brows and her bright red lips curve into a devious smile.

“No, Mom.  I came to see you.  Same as I do every Thursday.  And Tuesday.  And Sunday...and it’s Christmas Eve, so of course I’m here.”

“Oh, for fuck sake.”  She drops the F-bomb and even after hearing it about a hundred times every week from her, it still makes me pause.  “I don’t know what the hell day it is.”  She pokes me in the side then points to the piano.  “You should bang her.”

“Mom, stop. Seriously.”  I set my jaw and take hold of the handles on the back of her wheelchair, then turn her toward the back of the room.  I scan the space and see an open seat where I can plop my surly ass down and visit for a bit before finding Howard, the Resident Care Manager, to give him the medication refills he requested for her.

“What?”  Mom continues, unabated.  “She’s hot.  And besides, when was the last time you got laid?”  She cranes her head around to look up at me and I heave out a deep breath as another visiting family member overhears and gives me a sympathetic smile.  “Huh?”

“Right before I walked in, Mom.  In the parking lot, in the back of my truck.  Was a little cold, but I got the job done.” I play along, knowing even if the opportunity had presented itself, there’s no possible way I could rise to the occasion with anyone other than her.

Eve Cupid.  Fuck even her name makes me hard.

Mom lets out a laugh, raising both her hands on a clap.  “That’s my boy.”

Since the first moment I saw Eve here, she’s the only thing that lets me know things below the belt still work.

Even before that day I saw her, it had been so many years since I’d even kissed a woman I’m pretty sure technically I’m a virgin again.

I shake my head and turn Mom’s chair around, settling it next to the empty floral wing-back chair against the back wall. 

Trouble is, I can’t tell Mom she’s right, that I do come here whenever I know she’s going to play. I check the activity schedule when it’s posted at the beginning of every month to see which days she will be playing.  She’s become my obsession.

Other trouble is, I can barely put two words together when she’s around.  Words are not my strong suit to begin with, but whenever I’m around her, what blood I do have in my brain seems to drain and fill my cock.

In high school I dated a few girls, and a few in the years after, but could never find anyone that made my heart thump.  I wasn’t like most of the other guys, I wasn’t going to make do with just anything, I wanted that thing. 

That girl that you’d change your life for.  That girl that you can’t stop thinking about.

And I never did find it.  Not until now. 

We settle in and I listen as Mom prattles on about something that happened twenty years ago.  Her memory about the past is crystal clear, it’s just her short-term is shit.

I steal as many glances as I can at Eve without looking like I’m staring as she makes herself comfortable behind the sleek black grand piano.  She’s wearing her street clothes still, as she does whenever she plays the piano.  Today it’s a fuzzy white sweater that hugs curves my hands twitch to discover, paired with a straight black skirt. On her feet she’s got these black patent-leather ballet sort of flat shoes and white stockings.

I love seeing her like this, imagining tearing off each piece of her clothing.  I want to kiss her face, to care for her spirit and fuck her until she’s a drooling, begging mess.

But I know I never will.  Because whenever I’m within three feet of her, I freeze and make a complete ass of myself. There’s no way an angel like her would be interested in a beast like me.

I’m not much to look at.  I’m absurdly large and my mother tells me I’m half linebacker and half lumberjack, with all the social skills of a caveman.

Thanks, Mom.

Eve’s usually in the caregiver’s uniform of a red polo shirt and khaki pants unless she’s playing the piano.  Doesn’t matter what she wears though, my dick rises to attention. She could wear a cardboard box and I’d be hard.

Residents wave and shout out song requests as she smiles and sets her fingers on the keys.

Fuck, her smile. 

I see it everywhere I go.  She fills my dreams every fucking night.  She’s in my mind when I wake up, rock hard and stroking myself off just to ease the pressure of a dick that has her name engraved on it.

“Everyone ready for Christmas?”  She addresses the growing group in the great room, her sweet voice barely audible over the clatter.  It’s standing room only as she readies her sheet music and reaches down into her backpack.  When she pulls out a Santa hat and puts it on top of the messy bun on top of her head I nearly cum in my pants.  “I am!” She claps and giggles as residents laugh and clap with her.

Fuck, she’s fucking cute. She’s got a dimple on her left cheek I can’t stop thinking about kissing her there.

But even her Christmas spirit doesn’t rub off on me.  The holiday only brings back a tightness in my chest and a hollowness in my heart.

“Did you cut down a tree and put it up?”  My mom whispers to me as Eve starts to play ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas’ and my heart twitches in my chest as I wait for her to start singing.  Her voice is as close to angels here on earth as is possible. Mom finishes with, “Only sell twenty trees this year. I don’t want too many cut down.”

“Okay, I won’t.  And yes, the tree I put up is ten feet tall and all decorated.”

It’s a lie. Both about the tree and how many I’ve sold this year.

Our family home sits on a hundred acres.  On fifty of those, we grow the Scottish Heralds.  A rare evergreen with the softest needles and most amazing scent of any tree on the planet.  They come from Kinross, where my father grew up.  He snuck two tiny saplings into his suitcase when he came over with his family as a boy, and when they settled here in Houghton, he planted them in an unused corner of the first field.

Over the years, those two little trees turned into a farm full of Scottish Heralds and a part-time business of selling the rare trees at Christmas was born.

Only this year, I’ve shut down the business. Just couldn’t stomach the thought of Christmas at all, let alone selling the trees without Mom and Dad there.

“Good boy.”  She whispers.  “I can’t wait for your father to come home tonight.  I miss him when he’s gone. You two work so hard. Men working with their hands is so sexy.”

“I know, Mom.  Not sure when he’ll be back though. Lots of work on the books.”  Dad was a stone mason and passed down the skills to me as I grew up.  “Don’t forget, we’re working on that big house over in Fox Lake.”

“Oh, that’s right.” 

I tell her the same story every time she asks about Dad.  Part of it is true, I am working on a ridiculously huge house in Fox Lake.  Dad handed down the skill of dry-stone stacking to me that he learned from his own father and his father before him. It’s a rare technique and has taken us around the country over the years, building homes mainly.

Since last year though, I’ve been working on just this one project because leaving Mom to work out of town is no longer an option for me.

I’ll never leave here.  Giving up the property, my work and the lifestyle would kill me. It’s the only thing in my life that has made sense for so long.

I reach over and take her hand in mine, which seems to calm her, and she takes her other hand and fists her chin, leaning her head to the side as Eve’s voice fills the crowded room.

A darkness hovers over me whenever I think about the fact I’m lying to her, but there’s no reason for her to relive my father’s death over and over every fucking day.  She doesn’t remember he’s gone thanks to a drunk driver on Christmas Day last year, and in some ways I envy her ignorance.

His life insurance left her set up for more than the rest of her life.  A place like Cedar Terrace is expensive as fuck, and I count my lucky stars every day we have the financial means to take care of her in such a setting.

Keeping her at home was no longer an option after Dad was gone.  Twice, when I’d left for work, she turned on the stove and forgot all about it.  A fire in the kitchen one day was only caught because I walked in from work just in time.  A second time, it was a Saturday at 3 AM and she woke up thinking she needed to cook Dad breakfast, only to turn the oven on to 500 degrees and set a pan full of eggs and water inside.

They exploded like shotgun shells, and if I hadn’t been there, there would have been another fire. Besides all that, at home and not having Dad around, she woke up every day having to grieve again, unable to remember the same conversation every morning when I’d tell her about the accident and explain that he wasn’t coming home.

I’m brought back to the moment when Mom squeezes my fingers and looks over at me with a smile, as Eve’s voice drifts down into all the empty places inside of me, making me warm and sad all at the same time.

“She’s so pretty.” Mom sighs. “I always wanted a daughter. She looks a little sad though, don’t you think?  I wish I could help her.”

As quickly as she’s dropping curse words and asking me about getting laid, she’s back to the mom I knew growing up. Soft spoken and kind, wanting the best for everyone and doing whatever was in her power to give it to people.

“I know, Mom. Now, sssssh, let’s listen.”  I close my eyes for a long moment and draw in a raw breath as Eve’s voice cascades deep into my soul.