Thursday, December 15 #2
Unlike the light-filled showroom, Nicholas Ponte’s office depicted a contradiction.
The hall lighting spilled into the shaded space, blending with the glow of the desk lamp.
He was oblivious to the twilight that slinked into his sanctuary like an encroaching fog as he sat behind the mahogany desk, rechecking his sales.
The eraser on the number 2 darted across the calculator keys in a frenzy as he scrutinized the figures rolling down the tape.
Lots of black numbers, lots of zeros. The perfect end to a perfect day.
He ripped off the tape, clipped it to the invoices, placed them in the bottom drawer of his desk, and headed to the showroom.
He walked under the spotlights, tapping a trunk here and patting a hood there. These were his foster children. He was eager to say goodbye, send them on their way, and fill his pockets as they were driven to their new home.
When Nicholas approached the car in the middle of the floor, he ran his hand over its roof. This was his favorite—flame red with a handcrafted wood interior.
His nightly bed check abruptly ended when he reached the last car on his tour. Chocolate fingerprints covered the white front fender. Some friggin’ thoughtless parents let their sticky-fingered kid touch his vehicle! This was a $400,000 two-seat sports car, not a road-trip minivan.
Who takes kids to a luxury car showroom, anyway? Idiots! Even so, those idiots have money. If they’re stupid enough to bring them, keep the kids’ damn paws off his cars!
Nicholas hurried to the supply closet and grabbed the first-aid kit—a polishing cloth. He should leave this mess for the service department to handle in the morning, but hell, he wouldn’t sleep without knowing whether the crap would come out or mar the finish.
Heavy breath escaped as he flared his nostrils, rolled up his sleeves, and crouched.
He began making gentle circular motions with the soft cloth, like a slow-moving merry-go-round.
He hated kids—the spitting up, the dirty diapers, the endless drooling, and chronic crying.
Hated all of them … except for a handful close to his heart. But that’s it!
Fingerprints! The memories burst in, unannounced and uninvited, bringing feelings that might be better left on the shelf.
“Don’t cry, sweetie. It’s okay. Mommy will wipe the fingerprints off the wall and wash your hands.”
“Tomorrow, you’re going to work with your father to dig graves. Time to get your hands dirty.”
“You think you’re better than me? I’m gonna beat the shit out of you, son.”
“I hate you! Look what you’ve done!”
He shuddered. Memories overwhelmed him like a tsunami, pounding into his soul. It was always the little things that invaded his mind—the long-gone yet overpowering memories that stayed with him after the day ended and would, in all likelihood, remain until the end of time.
Nicholas’s veins on his temple throbbed to the beat of his pounding heart as he tightened his grip and clenched his twitching jaw.
His hand and the cloth became one, and as they traveled around and around, the circle grew larger and larger.
Pressing harder, his hand sped up, moving faster and faster.
The soft chime of the outside door opening broke his anguished spell.
He stood, tossed the cloth onto the hood, and smiled as she entered.
The smile reached his dark eyes and spread along the fine lines at their corners.
She turned and nimbly clicked the deadbolt, as if she’d been there a hundred times and knew the drill.
Even in her long fur coat, Nicholas could see the exaggerated runway sway of her firm hips as she sashayed toward him in high-heeled, knee-high boots. She stopped in front of him.
“Am I late?” she asked, her voice as smooth as velvet, just like her svelte body and her waist-length, glittering blonde hair.
“Never. You’re always right on time.”
She pressed her body to his, and her manicured fingers began rubbing his shoulders. “You’re so tense tonight, Nicholas,” she said, squeezing the knots in his tight shoulder muscles like a masseuse. “Are you ready?”
“Always …”
“Where …?”
“Here.” Nicholas took the young woman’s hand, led her past the sleek sports cars, and down the hall to his dimly lit office. The place with the real ambiance.
When he closed the door behind them, he spread her coat open.
He sighed all the way down to the tips of his shoes.
All she wore beneath her outerwear was a lace bra and a thong.
Nicholas’s desperate body pressed her against the door, and his hands wildly grabbed and kneaded what he needed.
His mouth bore into hers so forcefully that it was as if they were at war, their pearly whites clashing.
She drove her hands through his hair, gyrating her hips into his, moaning. She was the queen of sound effects.
She peeled off her coat and tossed it onto the floor as they headed toward the 7-foot-long office sofa.
Nicholas’s back met the sofa’s smooth leather as she straddled his restless thighs.
But the real excitement didn’t begin until she slid down his legs and pulled down his pants’ zipper with her pearly white teeth.
Nineteen-year-old Celine, built like a Barbie doll but far more agile, did things to him that would make Barbie blush and that no girlfriend or good wife would ever do.
And since he was not Ken, Nicholas did things to her that no boyfriend or good husband would ever do.
Neither of them complained. They were too busy gasping.
And somewhere along the way, she lost her boots.