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April Spring drove up to her mobile home, returning from another day of sketching and photographing scenes and subjects she might turn into miniature art. This must stop, time to start painting, she told herself. She needed to start with miniatures of the terrorists to get a sense of whether that would work. Admittedly, she was anxious about moving the fine-tipped brushes from oil to rock or tin, which carried the threat of failure. Especially for her, a rank amateur, even if showing promise. But the last several months had been rough, she rationalized. She deserved a few days in the sun. Tomorrow she’d start painting for sure, she promised herself as Maple drove in next door.
April waved hello and walked his way. “Have you heard from your friend?”
“Everything’s under control, thanks, but I don’t know his plans.”
“Glad everything is okay. I just made a decision: I’m going to start painting tomorrow.”
“Good for you. Have you decided what you’re going to start with?”
She paused, reluctant to share her true plans. “I’d like to do that soaring red-tailed hawk, hunting, I think I told you about. But getting everything in such a confined space will be hard. I found an old iron bridge in a beautiful valley that I’m more comfortable with for starters. Say, it’s cocktail time. Will you join me?”
Maple felt uncomfortable and pulled up a lame excuse. “Thanks, but I actually have quite a bit to do, several calls.”
“Tomorrow then, if you can,” April persisted as she turned away.
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The next day went well. Working on stones, April painted the scenic bridge from a photo on her iPad and got a good start on an early 1950s Ford pickup rusting in a weedy field. Even so, there was a nip of guilt as her mind kept coming back to trying the terrorist portraits.
She had called Roy when she took a break for lunch, but got no answer. The afternoon was fading when she finished cleaning her brushes. Getting two beers from the refrigerator, she was sitting quietly in a lawn chair when Maple returned as dusk set in.
“Hi,” she called. “I drank your beer. But come on over. I have more.”
Maple walked slowly toward her, knowing he would be more at ease by himself. But being standoffish would draw unwanted attention at some point. What bothered him most, though, was he didn’t really know how to talk about himself and was fearful of dropping a personal detail that didn’t fit his simple cover story. His lack of experience with women, casual as well as sexual, made him uncomfortable in any one-on-one situation. He had a few girlfriends in and after high school, but his physical advances were clumsy and ill-timed. Other priorities crowded his immature love life, primarily his exploration of Islam and travel to Afghanistan, with the hardened radicalization that followed. Since then there had been only Mother Fist and her five daughters. It was much easier that way, never being challenged by the demands of a relationship. Never having a real conversation, let alone opening himself to someone else. Such interchange, he told himself, would endanger or make more difficult what was important in his life. Avoidance meant getting no more involved than water cooler chats about gas prices or how the Redskins were doing.
He wished Stickman had not left. Maybe April would see them as gay and wanting to be left alone. Or maybe Stickman would take an interest in her. He was closer to her age and, though never discussed, Maple knew he had occasional relationships. Now and then, Stickman would fail to come home and that would repeat itself every few days before abruptly ending. For whatever reason, Maple wondered whether those episodes involved men or women, though Stickman was not effeminate in any way.
“Unfold that lawn chair, Alex. Wanna Bud or an IPA?”
“I really don’t drink much, April. Just water or tea would be fine.”
Her hip brushed his shirt sleeve as he leaned to open the chair. She was quickly back with ice tea and another beer for herself. After exchanging summaries of their days – Maple’s mostly a composite of things he sometimes did – the next hour went surprisingly fast as April took over the conversation, interrupting herself only for another beer.
Declining her dinner offer of stew, Maple pulled himself up from the low-slung chair and she followed suit. She moved to within easy reach. “You really shouldn’t go.”
“Yes,” he began but was interrupted by the warm press of her body. Her hands took his face and she kissed him and after hesitating, he kissed her back, her tongue immediately searching his mouth. “That’s better,” she said, hands moving down his chest and to his sudden erection. He kissed her again and his hands cupped her ample breasts. She rubbed him, her other hand slipping under his crotch to squeeze gently.
“Oh God,” he hissed as his cock began throbbing, then lost control. “Oh God, I am so sorry. I’m not very ...God, it feels good, so good ...” She hadn’t turned loose of anything and he rocked back and forth, grunting softly. “Sorry. I’m embarrassed. I need to go now.”
“No. You’re coming inside. I’m going to tease you back to life.”