“Hold on, Paul, I’m almost there,” I begged in his ear, his face buried against my neck, his panting breaths quickening. “Feel better?” I asked, then “I can see I’ve got some laundry to do when we get home.”
That relieved the pressure, the need. If this was a conventional narrative following conventional and fictional cliches, the team would be tied at the bottom of the ninth, two out, no one on, when my brother came to the plate and, of course, voila: a home run. I can’t wait to feel you inside me…” and at that point my glib manner failed me as the words caught in my throat and I continued “I mean, I know I’ll feel you, but I’d love to feel everything, you know?”
“You know baseball better than most, sis, right?”
“Uh, sure,” wondering where this was going. Once again our parents had announced their plans by Wednesday; they were off to the cottage “to clean it and open it up for the summer”.
