Deliberate (II)

He knocked on the door softly.

Bobby Macleod stood on the porch, trying to look as contrite as possible. He didn't feel it, of course. Something about coming back to Annie's house to get his books a day shy of the two-week mark after her death made him feel the need to act like the condolences about to come out of his mouth were at least somewhat heartfelt.
Something about never actually liking Annie made him feel the acting was necessary. Something about the idea of Reggie coming to the door made his heart die; the girl could make him feel insipid at whim. He hoped it would be Reggie's dad who came to the door.

Knock-knock; who's there?

Nothing.

Reggie could make him feel like nothing, a nobody. She delighted in making him feel as small as possible; every time he was over to get tutored by Annie, Reggie made it a point to pick on him a little. He already felt worthless, and lame, and all the things Annie's younger sister deemed him; he didn't need his inner nay-sayer to be reflected by some girl from school. He didn't need it – but he felt like he certainly deserved it. When Reggie's dad came to the door, at least he didn't mock Bobby. If anything, Mr. Bouton was aloof and quiet. He would just answer the door, and move aside for Bobby to come on in. Bobby preferred that.

He knocked on the door a little harder.

Nada.

He tried rapping with his knuckles, to no avail.

Looking over, he spotted the doorbell. Licking his front teeth, he pushed the button. He could hear the bell from out on his perch on the porch step. Someone started to move towards the door: he could see the shadow in the window. He almost crossed his fingers, but decided against lapsing in to silly superstitions. He fidgeted. Please don't be Reggie.. please don't be Reggie…

The face that loomed in the door window was that of Reggie's mother. Mrs. Bouton, the neutral alternative! A shy little smile overtook his pretentious look of penitent patience. Somehow he felt that this suited things better, even though he would only realize it later, upon reflection. That was Bobby – always introspective, always analyzing – yes sir, indeed!

Mrs. Bouton looked equally relieved to be greeting him (as opposed to -- who?), dressed up in her office-secretary best: tan skirt-suit and a white blouse. As far as he knew, she hadn't been back to work since That Day. They lingered for a moment, the questions: why did she keep getting up, and dressing up, if she stayed inside all day? Was it to answer the door in a getup that appealed to coming-and-passing well-wishers? A façade to fool them? Of what?

"Ah, Bobby – good to see you.. err, I never really expected you back…" she left it hanging open as an invite for him to explain his appearance at her doorstep, now that his business in the place had jumped ship. She tapped a chipped-lacquered nail against the doorframe, keeping time like a rusty metronome.

"Oh, yeah.. I –" he looked around behind Mrs. Bouton, trying to be inconspicuous, but failing, his eyes patrolling the dark hallway for Reggie's slumpy shadow.

"Reggie's not in at the moment; it's still school time," she said, clearing up any thoughts he had of Reggie being home by chance – it was lunch, but that wasn't the point. He felt like he could fall over, feeling so much more at ease.

"Right, well.. I'm really just here for my textbooks. I'm falling behind in my classes, even with people sharing theirs with me during class. It's after school when I really need them, you know?"

Mrs. Bouton nodded sagely. "Well, I guess you'll have to come on in and retrieve them then, hmm?"

Bobby felt a nagging tug of hesitation – but as to why, he couldn't quite name it. He lifted a foot, preparing to enter, regardless. Mrs. Bouton stood in the doorway, in his way, eyeing him in a way that made the hair on his neck crawl. It was as if she were scanning his mind, checking for something. Apparently she found whatever it was – their eyes remained locked the whole time – because she stepped aside, and motioned for him to come in. He covered the bridge of his nose in a loose pinch. He let go as soon as his whole body was inside. The arm dropped stiffly to his side, the fingers held as limply as he could make them.

"I put your books in the bedroom," she said, leading him up the stairs. The house was surprisingly dim; it seemed like all of the blinds were shut, but a bit of light leaked through, causing a coffin-cozy grey every which way his eyes traveled. His face scrunched in a self-conscious look of curiosity and betrayed his feelings of half-realized suspicions. She looked back, but only long enough for him to switch his face to a impartial gaze of studious concentration directed at the pictures leveled evenly all the way diagonally up the wall. The hallway led to further gradients of darkness. At the top, the landing seemed imposing in its vague composition of fuzzy whites and grays. She ushered him in to a room on the left end. She didn't shut the door behind them – but he had the feeling she was considering it.

A surprising thing happened just then: a dream of his from back when he first came to the tutoring sessions came to mind; it had been something about Mrs. Bouton being younger, and kissing him. For whatever reason, this unbidden image inspired a boner. He blushed, his lips pursing in awkward worry. She was ahead of him, rooting around in a closet. She stood up straight, her back to him. She dropped the books; the sudden clatter of heavy texts hitting shoeboxes startled him in to a little hop. He could almost feel her smiling – smiling like in the dream, even. That half-lidded, coy little smile. His penis nodded in his boxers, almost as if to agree that something was definitely happening here. He swallowed anxiously, his little Adam's apple bobbing like a mechanical twitch in clockwork.

She didn't hum, but Bobby almost thought she was – there was no tune that came to mind, just that vibration-buzzing noise. She swayed a little, as if drunk with some kind of suggestive power. With hands that were like little homing signals for his eyes – their light contrast to the murky room kept his attention; his squinting eyes ached for relaxation – she pulled out the clip holding her artificially brown hair. Of course, he couldn't make out the color in here; it looked dark enough to be a shade of black in its own. He just knew that it was mostly grey, from Annie. If Bobby had have been a little more like regular boys, he would have seen something like this in a movie scene starring his last semester's Socials teacher. Maybe then he would have had a little bit of foresight, or at least the viewers' experience of what was to come next. The hair fell like a wavy cascade.. not anything like those shampoo commercials; this was somehow more sudden, and not so provocative; yet, at the same time, the lack of commercialized appeal made it somehow more alluring. Or was it..? Bobby frowned, thinking for a second of where he was; he pushed it out of his mind when she dropped her little jacket off of her shoulders. Again, if he'd watched more porn, he'd also probably be curious about how clothes disappear from the shots of the scenes – unlike now, when they were obviously going to linger, and add to the general disorder. His eyes followed; the jacket fell in a lumpy heap on the ground, hiding the books beyond her feet. His eyes picked out the distinctive curve of the backs of heeled shoes, some variation of tan as well, if he wasn't mistaken. Why would she wear shoes and her suit inside, on a day when she wasn't going to work at all..? Regardless, he reached behind himself and pulled on the cool knob, closing the door.

She unbuttoned the blouse, still with her back turned to him. She dropped it back, wrapping it around her shoulders, like a shawl. He couldn't see any bra straps. Unsure of his own motives, he started pulling off his shirt and undoing his pants. He was equally unsure of his facial expression: it was part bemused, but mostly detailed with the look of a lonely young virgin jumping in to a situation he hadn't bothered to assess. Good thing it was dark in here, otherwise Mrs. Bouton's backside might have caught wind of that inexperienced gaping gaze of his, and jump-started a campaign in her front-side to reverse her performance before introducing Bobby to the way he came in. Unfortunately (or, fortunately?) Mrs. Bouton's back was somewhat too preoccupied with the draped blouse to bother checking on Bobby's reaction to the situation at hand.

The skirt slipped off like skin off of a boiled peach. No panties, either. She stepped out of it, holding the blouse around her torso. By this point, Bobby was standing in his Spiderman boxers, one hand hovering over his rigid member – almost protecting it, maybe – and the other gripping a thigh tensely. With his dick being how it was, his face was flushed and blotchy, his whole body swooning with overbearing hormones. He breathed shallowly, almost cautiously, his head tilted downward and his eyes fixed upward; upward at a scene of the like that he'd only encountered in dreams that ended with him doing his own laundry.

The shoes made little muffled ripping sounds, tugging at the carpet as Mrs. Bouton turned to him. The lighting made her wrinkles diminish in relativity and visibility. Here she was: coy smile and all. She dropped the blouse, spreading her arms in an overt display. She coquettishly tilted her head. Coming towards him, the shoes kept up their little disturbance of the carpet's weft. Bobby's boner throbbed, making him gasp a little.

And then it happened: she got too close, and Bobby unexpectedly saw the resemblance between her and Annie. Insta-no-boner. Just like that. Mrs. Bouton saw it go down, too. The look on her face changed from nymph-like to aged defeat. She dropped down on to the bed, covering her face. "Oh God," she moaned, legs clamped together.

"Shit," Bobby whispered, eyes darting downward in a shameful search for his clothes. He found his pants and hiked them on. He didn't quite make it to zipping them; Mrs. Bouton's soft little sobs distracted him. Shy all over again, he tiptoed over to her, holding a hand above her shoulder, not quite ballsy enough to touch her. A heave in her body brought the hand and shoulder to meet, triggering an even more audible cry from her.

"Oh, Bobby.. what the fuck am I doing?"

"Well.. I – you – we…" he lost his train of thought; this time he left the topic up to her to explain.

"I know what we were doing.. but.. why, I mean?" she peeked up at him from under tented fingers, her eyes comically wide and glossy in the dark mascara left long lines down her cheeks, accentuating the bags under her eyes, trailing under her shapely hands. "Not even that.. why would I – you – oh, I don't know; Bobby, why the fuck did it have to be you that came by today? I was all set for one of Karl's moronic golf cronies. Leave it to those assholes to never drop by when they're expected…"

Bobby's pants dove for the floor; he hastened to pull them back up – this time he fastened them, so as to keep them that way. "I don't know," he said, feeling his words hit empty air. "I.. think I should go."

"Yeah.." Mrs. Bouton mused, her hands lowering, and her posture slackening.

He shuffled over to the closet, dipping down to collect his textbooks. He rushed for the bedroom door, mindless of his state.

"Your clothes," she said, with a lilt to her voice.

"Oh.. um, yeah. Thanks." He fought with the cloth on the floor, struggling to get it all on, and get the fuck out. He achieved his goal, but not soon enough, as far as his pride and sense of dignity were concerned. He bounded down the stairs two at a time, sprinting on level land to get to the main door, and book it. He flung the door open – it was blown shut by a gust of fall wind – and ran, running in a wobbly way that made him feel like abandoning the textbooks right there, and running, running, running for home. Safe, quiet, uneventful home.

Mr. Bouton's new silver Chevrolet cruised past: the driver even waved, curious as to why Bobby was so far behind his gym class.