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like it's soooo tough
like it's soooo tough
It seemed so simple, picking up the waitress at the corner breakfast place. He had only just started eating there on the weekends. before, he had always made breakfast for her. They had eaten in the living room. She had nattered on about what ever she was watching on morning tv...usually ETrue Story or the reruns of the real world. It was at these moments that he should have realized that the age difference WAS an issue. In the beginning he thought it was really kind of cool that 10 years didn't really show between them. God knows she worked at it. Gym and diet and shopping and the music. The music. Loud. Not that that didn't have it's place. He loved rolling out of the teachers lot with Kid rock's "cowboy" blaring, Marlboro, pearched in it's holder, hanging from the side of his mouth, as he waved goodbye to the vice principal on a well-deserved Friday. But Hammer? At 6:30? During the week end? Maybe the corus of "Pay" could get the blood flowing. As an athlete he had often found motivation or inspiration in music. While running, on the walkman, or while lifting in the weight room during Track season (the football players' mindless attraction to heavy metal made lifting in the fall unbearable...that and the football players) or while warming up before basketball games. He never felt better than when the pep-band played "Sweet Georgia Brown". But Hammer? Fucking Hmmer? And bumping gansta in your convetable Beemer is just sooo street. Especially when you're in your early fifty's
He had tried to tell himself early-on that it wasn't an affectation. That she had an open and inquizitive mind. So his dishonesty was just as pathetic. Anyway...
He'd make her breakfast. She'd eat less and less over their three years together. She'd just move the food around and keep pounding the coffee, complaining all the while that she was gonna pay for this in the gym later. Actually it was her ex who paid for it every time she went to the plastic surgeon. He found out about that later. He knew about the boobs. She confessed on their fourth date. that was the first time they'd fucked. Indoors. Alone. On a bed.
Obviously the chemistry had been strong.
So had the vodka. And the beer. And the shot's of tequilla.
The confession had come after. As the sweat cooled and the light reflected off of her as she lay catching her breath, he had remarked how he liked looking at her streched out like that. She had tensed slightly before she reached for the blaket.She was cold. She was always cold. The flinch should have tipped him. She hadn't realized the full moon's light would be so bright that it might expose one of the scars. When he mentioned that he had just complimented her and that most women didn't cover-up and roll away,she started crying. Didn't see THAT coming. Then the confession. He confessed that he had had no clue and didn't really care. The rest of the vening improved dramatcally