Back in the basement, they poured more coffee. Shirtless, the boys entered the kitchen to pilfer a bag of potato chips. Puffing up their narrow chests, they chattered of the bravado just experienced on screen. Ty’s scars had significantly healed to the pink flush of new skin and scab, that, in time, would become dusky tracks across his body. As for Francis, the long scar descending the diagonal of his back looked freshly inflamed, along with several cigarette burns. Alan knew there must be pain, but the boy said nothing. With conspiratorial eyes, the two shut the living room door and lost themselves again in the world of Eternal Love.

“You’re good at coffee,” he said.

“Blame that one on my old man. Used to take me on the road with him. Coffee was the fuel that kept us going.” Gwen raised her gaze past him.

The Greta emerged from the hallway.

“Hello.” Gwen poured her a cup of coffee and held it out.

The woman pulled aside her mask and carefully lifted the mug to her mouth. Her bottom lip had been completely burned away by that long-ago fire. She set the cup on the counter, took a piece of fabric out of her pocket, and handed it to Gwen.

She read it silently to herself and then aloud for Alan, “I will return to my path. I wish to thank the Maji.” Her eyes, through the slits of her covering, held words she would never speak.

“Francis,” Gwen called out. The sound of the television stopped, and the living room doors separated. Francis emerged.

The Greta fell to her knees, head down, hands up, reaching for him. Francis came to her, and she carefully placed her hands on his bare belly. Her fabric-ensconced fingers traced his wounds, reading the braille of his pain. She took his hands and kissed his palms; she bent and kissed his feet. She pushed herself to her feet and handed him a piece of cloth.

He took it and read it. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he wiped them away on his arms. He put the fabric into his pocket, and the Greta ushered him back into the living room.

Ty observed all this with intense curiosity. He closed the double doors, muffling their whispers—and a moment later, the TV came back on.

She produced another piece of fabric for Alan.

“Protect him,” it read.

God, if he could, he would do anything. “I will,” he said.

She looked to Gwen.

“Yes,” said Gwen, “with my life.”

The humble and nameless woman, hidden in her hand-sewn shawls, ambled up the stairs. They climbed after her and watched as she went down the little sidewalk into the alley and was gone.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“You know what’s really disturbing?” he said.

“What’s that?” she said.

“That show, Eternal Love, it ain’t too bad.”

“I’ve seen every episode,” said Gwen.

“Well,” he scanned the yard and the neighbor’s yard beyond the chain-link fence. “Our duties now have ended. More coffee?”

“Sure.”

Halfway down the basement steps, he stopped. From a step below, they were almost the same height. He moved to kiss her. She avoided his lips and ran her nose across his cheek.

She pressed back on him, a hand going for the outline of his cock in his Joe’s Jiffy Stop sweatpants.

He let her grope him, let her get him stiff.

“The boys,” he whispered.

“They’re watching that fucking show,” she said.

She reached into his pants and pulled him out and manipulated him with her hands. She looked up at him, a wanting, needful hunger in her eyes. Then, slowly, gracefully descended down into the kitchen, where she picked up her cup of coffee and drank.

The door to the living room was shut tight, probably locked. He looked at Gwen. She wore leggings and a hoody. This combination aroused him like a youthful age of innocence. He walked up behind her and pressed against her. She pushed back. He ran his hands up under, across her stomach, and cupped her small, firm tits, working her nipples to erection. He felt her tremble.

Blindly she found and extracted his turgid boner.

He pulled down the elastic fabric over her ass and felt for her with his fingers. Unlike the night of the pumpkin spice champaign, she was rough with new growing hair.

“I don’t have a rubber,” he whispered in her ear.

She grunted and aligned him with her pussy and pierced herself on him with a swift, aggressive thrust of her haunches.

“Fuck me,” she whispered again and again. “Fuck me. Just fuck me.”

She was impossibly tight. He feared tearing her. He pulled her cheeks apart and watched her slip like a second skin over his shaft. He reached in front of her and rubbed her. She whimpered. He didn’t stop. He let her work him. She was relentless. She started shaking. A wetness.

He fell over the edge. He lifted her hair and buried his nose in the nape of her neck, opened his mouth across her flesh and cried, tasting the solution of her salt and his saliva. Then little kisses. His heart pounded.

Panting for breath and stillness. The TV played a sad music.

He did not want to leave her, but then he did.

It was she who pulled away.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said. She looked him in the eye, unashamed of their urgent coupling. “Make another pot?”

When she had gone and the coffee was dripping, the living room door clicked open, and Francis peered out and around.

“Wanna watch Eternal Love with us?” he said.

“You’re letting me into the lair?”

The boy smiled. “Yeah, you’re one of ours. But…”

“And there’s the rub,” said Alan. “Hungry?”

Francis nodded his head, and his long black hair fell across his face.

He opened his arms and let Francis fall into him. The boy pressed his head against his chest, pushed his nose into his shirt, and sighed.

Alan choked it back. He did not deserve to give hugs. “How about a bologna sandwich?”

“And chips?” said Francis.

“And chips,” said Alan.

“And Coke?” called Ty from the living room where he watched them.

“Orange juice,” said Alan, affecting the fatherly tone he’d heard Bridger use.

Francis nodded the affirmative and backed away, eyes on Alan. He did not close the doors. He pounced next to his friend on the sofa, giggles bubbling up.

In the kitchen, he put bread on the counter. The coffee percolated happily. He heard the shower running.

When he felt it, he knew it for what it was. It made no sound as it passed around him and through him: a transcending light, an instant, a flicker, and then it was gone.