Chapter 4: Breakfast Confusion
The smell pulled her up from a deep, blank sleep. Cinnamon. Vanilla. The particular scent of brioche soaking in egg until it reached a state of custardy perfection. Her eyelids fluttered against the morning light seeping around the blackout curtains. For one glorious, weightless moment, she was back in a before-time. The house was full. Dima was home.
She heard the soft clink of a tray being set on the glass bedside table. A large, calloused hand shook her shoulder gently.
“Ma’am? Lydia? Made you some breakfast.”
The voice was all wrong—gravelly and thin, not Dima’s smooth baritone—but the scent was a siren song, drowning out reason. She moaned, a low, sleepy sound of want, and pushed the duvet down. The cool air hit her skin, clad only in a slip of white lace. She didn’t open her eyes.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep and the ghost of a dream.
Her hand slid out, palm connecting with rough, worn cotton of sweatpants. She traced up the solid thigh beneath, her fingers remembering a different musculature, but her mind, fogged and hungry, smoothed over the discrepancy. This was her reward. Her need, coiled tight from a lonely, restless night and the shock of what she’d seen in the hallway bathroom yesterday—that thick, heavy flash of him—thrummed to the surface. Her fingers found the waistband of the sweats and hooked in, pulling them down in one languid motion.
Her other hand found him. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking once, twice, her brain sluggishly registering the impressive, thick heat of him. A dreamy observation slipped out. “God, you’re so much bigger this morning,” she sighed, nuzzling against the fabric near his hip.
Then she took him into her mouth.
The taste was immediate and foreign. Salt. Skin. A faint, musky tang that was nothing like the clean, showered scent of her husband. It was earthy, unprocessed, fundamentally other. She worked him instinctively, a sleepy, devoted rhythm, her tongue circling the broad head.
Above her, Earl gasped. A sharp intake of breath that hitched into a low, ragged moan. His hands hovered, unsure, then settled tentatively on her head, not guiding, just resting. “Oh. Oh, Lord. That feels so good, ma’am.”
Ma’am.
The word cut through the perfume of French toast and her own fantasy like a shard of glass. Her eyes flew open.
She saw the faded plaid of the borrowed pajama pants pooled around knobby, scarred ankles. She saw the stained hem of a t-shirt. Her gaze traveled up, over a soft, aged belly, to a face looking down at her with bewildered, delighted shock. Earl’s mouth was slack, his eyes glassy. He was grinning, a simple, grateful expression of pure pleasure.
And she saw, with horrifying clarity, what was in her mouth. The reality of it. The size, yes, thick and full in a way Dima never was, but also the coarse, wiry gray hair at the base. The slightly wrinkled skin. The reality of the man attached to it. Old. Dirty. Homeless.
She recoiled as if electrocuted, shoving herself back against the headboard, sputtering. The taste exploded on her tongue—sweat and sleep and male aging—and her stomach lurched.
“Get out,” she choked, the words scraping her throat raw. “Get out! Now!”
The grin vanished from Earl’s face, replaced by confused hurt. He fumbled with his sweatpants, yanking them up, his movements clumsy with shock. “I—I just made the French toast. The card was right there. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“OUT!”
He fled, leaving the tray on the table, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
Silence crashed back in, broken only by the ragged saw of her own breath. She scrambled for the water glass on her nightstand, gulping it down, swishing, spitting into the glass. It didn’t help. The taste clung to her palate, a gritty, intimate stain. She wiped her mouth violently with the back of her hand.
Disgust rode her hard, hot and shameful. What had she done? What the fuck had she just done? She’d had a homeless man’s dick in her mouth. She’d sucked it, eagerly, before she’d even fully woken up. The horror was absolute, a nauseating wave.
But beneath the shame, under the visceral disgust, a low current hummed.
Her heart wasn’t just pounding in fear. It was pounding.
She could still feel the shocking, substantial weight of him in her hand. The way he’d filled her mouth, stretching her lips. The coarse texture against her tongue. The sheer, uncivilized size of him. It had been bad. It had been dirty and wrong and awful.
And for a sleepy, surreal minute, it had been electrifying.
“No,” she whispered to the empty, perfect room.
Her hand, traitorous and independent, slid down her flat stomach. Over the lace of her panties. She was soaking wet. A hot, slick shame pressed against the fabric. She closed her eyes, and against the black of her eyelids, she didn’t see Dima. She saw Earl’s hopeful, grateful grin looking down at her. She felt again the startling girth of him.
A low moan escaped her, part despair, part something else entirely. Her fingers pressed down, rubbing slow, firm circles through the lace. The disgust and the excitement swirled together, inseparable, feeding each other. She thought of his dirt-ingrained nails. His smell. The way he’d moaned, “That feels so good, ma’am.” The sheer power of what she’d held in her hand, in her mouth.
Her hips lifted off the mattress, seeking pressure. Her breathing shortened. This was sick. This was broken. This was the most alive she’d felt since they led Dima away in handcuffs.
She came quickly, violently, biting her own fist to stifle the cry, her body arching into the empty air. The aftershocks were a trembling confession. She lay there, staring at the pristine ceiling, the taste of Earl still on her tongue, the phantom feel of him imprinted on her lips, a dirty secret now etched into the sanctuary of her own bed.
She lay there, staring at the pristine ceiling, the taste of Earl still on her tongue, the phantom feel of him imprinted on her lips, a dirty secret now etched into the sanctuary of her own bed. A weird, cold dampness touched her cheek. She swiped at it absently.
Her fingers came away wet. She looked. A string of clear, viscous fluid connected her knuckle to her face. The smell hit her next, musky and biological, cutting through the cinnamon still hanging in the air. Pre-cum. His pre-cum, smeared on her skin. A fresh wave of revulsion clenched her stomach. He was old enough to be her grandfather. He lived under a bridge. The reality was a slap.
She sat there, her breath shallow, staring at the fluid on her finger. The disgust curdled into something quieter, a deep and shameful curiosity. Without letting herself think, her hand moved. She brought her finger to her mouth and sucked it clean.
The taste was sharper, saltier than before, without the filter of skin. It was pure. Semen. Old man semen. She held it on her tongue, waiting for the gag reflex. It didn’t come. Her eyes fluttered closed. Instead of repulsion, a strange, hot calm spread through her chest. Her nipples tightened against the lace slip. She’d done that. She’d pulled that from a broken body on the side of the road.
She opened her eyes to the room, seeing it anew. The perfect, empty room Dima had designed. The mausoleum. She pictured Earl’s face, that brief flash of pure, shocked joy crumbling into hurt when she’d screamed. He’d just made her French toast from a dead man’s recipe. He’d been gentle. She was the one who’d pulled him in, blind and hungry.
“Shit,” she whispered to the empty room.
She shoved the duvet aside. The air was cold on her damp thighs. She snatched her robe from the foot of the bed, wrapping the silk tightly around herself as if it were armor. She needed water. She needed to scrub her mouth raw. She needed to fix this.
The hallway floor was cold on her bare feet. She could hear the soft, shuffling sounds of him in the living room. She paused at the top of the stairs, her hand on the smooth rail. What was she even going to say? Sorry I sucked your dick in my sleep, let’s have some toast?
Downstairs, the kitchen lights were off. Earl stood by the living room window, his back to her, looking out at the manicured lawn. He’d folded the blanket she’d given him into a neat square on the couch. His few belongings were tucked beside it. He was ready to go.
“Earl.”
He flinched but didn’t turn. His shoulders hunched. “Tray’s on the counter. I didn’t touch nothin’ else. I’ll get out of your way.”
His voice was flat, stripped of the gravelly warmth from before. It sounded hollow. She walked into the kitchen. The French toast was perfectly golden, dusted with powdered sugar, just the way Dima made it. Two slices. The knife and fork were set neatly on a folded paper towel.
“You didn’t have to leave it,” she said, her own voice sounding foreign.
“Figured you might want it. Since I ruined… everything else.” He finally turned. His eyes, watery and blue, didn’t quite meet hers. They landed on her collarbone, then flicked away. “I’m sorry, ma’am. That wasn’t… I didn’t come in there for that.”
“I know.” The words tasted like ash. She leaned against the cold granite of the island. “I’m the one who… initiated.”
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator. He studied his own gnarled hands. “You thought I was him, didn’t you? Your fella.”
It wasn’t a question. Lydia nodded, a quick, sharp movement. “The smell. It disoriented me.” It was an excuse, and they both knew it.
“Right.” He picked at a thread on his borrowed sweatpants. “Look, you’ve been kind. More than kind. I’ll be gone before you finish your breakfast.”
He moved towards his bundled coat. The momentum of the morning, of her shame, of the salt still lingering in the back of her throat, propelled her forward. “Wait.”
He stopped. She saw the faint tremor in his hands. He was afraid of her now, afraid of this clean, cold house and the woman in it who had screamed at him.
“You should eat something too,” she said. The sentence hung in the air, absurd and obvious. She gestured weakly to the other stool at the island. “It’s too much for me.”
He stared at the offered stool like it was a trap. “Ain’t right.”
“Nothing about this is right,” she said, and the truth of it felt like a key turning. “Please. Sit.”
Slowly, warily, he shuffled over and lowered himself onto the stool. He sat ramrod straight, not touching the counter. Lydia picked up the knife and cut the French toast in half. She slid one plate toward him, keeping the other in front of herself. She didn’t sit.
She watched as he looked at the food, then at her. His expression was one of pure, uncomprehending loss. She picked up her fork, speared a bite, and put it in her mouth. It was perfect. It tasted like betrayal and comfort all at once. She chewed, swallowed.
“Eat, Earl.”
He picked up his fork. His hand shook so badly the tines clattered against the plate before he steadied them. He took a small bite. He closed his eyes as he chewed. A single, clean tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek.
Lydia watched him. She watched the old man cry silently over a piece of French toast in her husband’s kitchen. The wetness on her own cheek, his wetness, had dried. Her finger, where she’d tasted him, felt clean. She knew it wasn’t. She knew nothing was. She took another bite, her eyes not leaving his face, the strange, hot calm solidifying into something like a decision.