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She reached over the desk to get a pen to write something on it and I dipped my head down to see if I could look up her tennis skirt. I swear I didn't see any panties, which only hardened me more. Wendy crossed out a few things and kept writing as she continued to lean over the desk. I wanted to get up behind and press myself inside her. When Wendy did finish writing she propped up on the desk and crossed her legs. As she did, it was if I had been watching Basic Instinct. She Had No Panties On! I saw her dark Bush and I felt my face go flush. I lifted my eyes up to hers. Wendy smiled and paused just staring at me. "I want to go over your schedule more but I've got a tennis game in a little bit." My heart sank and I knew my disappointment could be seen on my face. Wendy got off the desk and handed me the paper. I stood up with my head down. Then without hesitation, Wendy stepped into me and kissed me. I didn't know what to do with my hands so I kept them at my sides. It felt soft,. Her grandfather Peter had come from Belfast runnin’ from the Brits and so she was here, amid the birds and trees and berries and fruit and laughter and she still hated the Brits and their thieving ways and Gregory was her second to oldest child, second to oldest son. And he’d gone wrong. Bernice would sit in her room in the trailer, which smelled of cream and velimints, and watch her own television, as she didn’t like baseball nor my father none whatsoever mind you, though once in a blue moon if she had a taste from the wine, which jesus said was okay once in awhile, after all, she’d admit in low breathes that my dad was okay, though he worked too much at the machine shop and watched too many ball games on the TV. And Bernice liked her Lawrence Welk, and PBS, and things of culture that only she might appreciate and she was gray and white and fat and strong, with big glasses and hearing aids and a social security check that came every month like clockwork. And so, every Wednesday.
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