Fran sat in her car listening to the squeak and squeal of the garage door springs as the overhead panel moved down, slowly closing behind her. She had worked a double at the diner today, pulled in for the end of the redeye shift, then working through breakfast when one of the other girls had called in sick. The manager had let Fran go halfway through her usual evening shift, but by that point, she had been on her feet nearly fourteen hours. It felt as if every muscle was complaining, her calves and shoulders yelling the loudest.
She let her head fall backwards onto the headrest, rolling it side to side as she took in a deep breath, letting a small smile play across her face. Reaching up, she tucked her hair behind her ear, thinking of Pete waiting inside. She knew supper wouldn’t be ready, dishes still would be unwashed, but he would probably be willing to take her to bed, flip her onto her stomach so he could straddle her hips and listen to her talk while he rubbed her shoulders. That massage would drift naturally into petting and then probably sex. Decent sex that they had on a regular basis. So what if it wasn’t fireworks every time? He was a nice guy, and they got on well together.
Smile more firmly fixed in place, she reached across and gathered her apron, shoving it into her purse before opening the car door. Climbing out, she jolted when the overhead light went out. She had sat there long enough the timer had run its course, and she snorted. “Zoned out again, Francine?” Her voice echoed through the open space as she moved towards the door, not needing the light to traverse the familiar space.
Out of the garage and onto the short walk that crossed the back of Pete’s house, she frowned, because all the house lights were off. Gosh, I hope he’s okay, she thought, then saw flickering shadows moving through the windows of the master bedroom. Maybe the power’s out. As the walkway climbed the small incline behind the house, each step took her upward, bringing her level with the room. Two steps later she halted in place, gaze glued to the windows.
The small amount of light in the room came from five or six candles, each one lit and scattered on various shelves and dresser along the edges of the room. Candles she had bought several weeks ago and only used once because Pete said they gave him a headache. Candles she liked but didn’t use, because she didn’t want to give Pete a headache. She loved Pete or thought she did, or at least she wanted to. She was sure she liked him, though, had feelings for him; she knew that for a fact. Pete, who she now saw was sprawled on his back on the bed, legs spread wide to accommodate the form kneeling between them.
Fran’s hand rose, tucking her short dark hair behind her ear again as she looked at the long blonde hair of the woman whose mouth was on Pete’s cock. Unconsciously, her other hand shifted the strap of her bag higher on her aching shoulder, the back of her hand pressing against a breast which was so much smaller than the ones on the woman poised on the bed with Pete’s cock in her mouth. Without realizing what she was doing, Fran took a step closer to the window, then another, until her face was nearly pressed against the thin pane of glass separating her from the couple.
Now she could hear Pete, who was never vocal in bed, talking in a steady stream of words to the woman with big breasts and long blonde hair who had her mouth on his cock. His coarse words encouraging her, complimenting her, his voice groaning for her. Pete, who was nearly silent in bed, was not silent now. Then she heard them, his words which severed the invisible, unknown strings holding the three of them together, words that brought the head of the woman up out of his crotch, mouth leaving his cock but hanging open. “So good, Frannie.” His voice sounding low and passionate were words she wanted to hear months ago. Words she had never heard him say, and now he said them to another woman.
When the blonde’s head came up, she screeched, “My name ain’t Frannie, asshole.” Then she screeched again, shoving herself backwards on the bed, yelling, “Oh my God, there’s someone at the window.”
Fran realized the candlelight from inside couldn’t be strong enough to illuminate her face, and the streetlights from behind must have left her in silhouette because even Pete didn’t recognize her. Pete, who she had been with for nearly a year, who called her name in bed for the first time to a woman who wasn’t her, yelled, “Fucking freak, get the fuck away from my window.”
With a jerk, she stepped back, and the light from outside must have fallen across her features because she then heard her name from that bed again, this time low and angry instead of low and passionate. “Frannie, what the fuck?”
“Fran,” she whispered. “I hate the name Frannie. Sounds like fanny, and I don’t like being called an ass.” She knew he couldn’t hear her, but it was something she had wanted to say for a while, and even in this extreme situation, it felt good to finally say it. She took another step backwards, then another, finding herself back on the sidewalk. Her trip to the house had been interrupted by only a bare minute or two, that return to Pete’s home now forever derailed.
“Frannie,” he called, less angry as she watched him scramble for the edge of the bed. “Baby,” she heard and hated it. He used endearments as throwaway words, so him calling her that meant less than her name from his mouth. Even less than her name aimed at another woman who had his cock in her mouth at the time.
Stumbling, she whirled and ran, feet slapping the firm surface of the sidewalk, hand reaching for and turning the knob on the door leading into the garage. Other hand hitting the switch inside the door that raised the overhead, her first hand then reached for the handle on the door of her car, tugging as she heard his voice come louder from the direction of the house. Knowing he was now outside gave her greater urgency, and she folded into the car, heart pounding as she slammed the door behind her and fumbled for the locks.
Her now trembling hand pulled the keys from her purse, then shoved them into the ignition switch, twisting them viciously, hearing the starter take hold and then the grinding whine that was her holding it too long, making her hand jerk and let go of the key. The squeaking and squealing stopped, and she knew the overhead had slotted into space above her, so she pulled the floor-mounted gearshift down and right one spot, slinging the car from neutral into reverse as she released the handbrake.
Pete’s voice came from beside her window, but her head was turned the other way, looking over her shoulder and out the open garage door, making sure she didn’t back into the neighbor’s building across the alley. A dull knocking against the window made her jump, but she didn’t turn. Didn’t want to see his face. She couldn’t block out his voice, though. “Frannie, baby. Wait.”
Successfully negotiating the reverse turn into the alley, she faced forward for a moment, the sound of each breath whistling in and out shrill in the closed space. Hand reaching for the gearshift again, she brought it up into first, slowly releasing the clutch and rolling the car forwards. “Frannie.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him moving beside the car, one hand holding to the car’s frame where it supported the windshield, his other hand gripping the handle, that arm moving as he impotently tugged the locked door. “Let me explain.” She stopped the car and sat for a moment, foot on the brake, feeling her breathing catch painfully in her chest, aware for the first time she was crying. “Come inside, baby. Let me explain.” Her fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel, ten and two, just like her granddad had taught her in the old farm truck, the one he let her drive across the fields when she was barely tall enough to reach the pedals.
Granddad loved Grandma, she thought. Loved her so much, he would have never brought another woman to their bed. Her fingers tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white with the strain. “Frannie, baby,” Pete called, his voice now low and sweet, what she got from him sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Grandma got that from Granddad all the time. Low and sweet, low and passionate, low and loving, the last two of which she had never gotten from Pete. Don’t settle, Francine, she heard her grandma’s voice in her head, and she knew…she knew her grandma was right. Being with Pete was settling. “Frannie, baby.”
“My name’s not Frannie,” she said, and just before she landed her foot on the gas pedal, she heard him ask, “What the fuck?”