Back to Twenty, Stuck at Forty-Two

—…By evening a sharp cold snap and heavy rain are expected, so the umbrella will become the best friend of the city’s residents today, — the anchorwoman droned monotonously from the screen, as always making elegant steps in her tight pencil skirt while her full, heavy breasts swayed gently under the impeccably tailored blazer, drawing the eye far more strongly than any storm fronts on the weather map.

Mike didn’t blink right away, holding the smoldering cigarette in his hand. His gaze was glued to those two enormous hemispheres that, damn it, always — always — made his brain switch to completely different pictures, having nothing to do with the weather, imagining how those very hemispheres would look without the blazer, without the bra, just bare, heavy, and squeezing his cock between them, sliding smoothly back and forth. Back… forth…

“How the hell does she even walk with those things? How does she sleep? It’s just fucking horrifying, not a life at all,” flashed through his head once again, and then, with a slight delay, the second thought arrived: “She’s probably just a dumb bitch and thinks it’s beautiful.”

The air in the apartment reeked of tobacco and warm beer, but would you even notice that when the whole smell is your own handiwork — especially when you suddenly remembered a few minutes ago why you used to watch the weather forecast, but completely forgot about it in the process.

The sound of the front door opening echoed and reached Mike, making him flinch — the ash that had barely been clinging to the cigarette broke off and fell straight onto his thigh.

— Shit! — burst out of Mike.

He jerked, trying to brush the ash off the tender smooth skin of his leg, but immediately cursed everything in the world. From the sharp movement his breasts heaved heavily, stretching the bra so hard that the underwire dug into the skin, and the unruly hemispheres started wobbling like fucking jelly, pulling the skin in different directions.

— Goddamn it… — he breathed out quietly, suddenly feeling that already familiar and at the same time still strange mixture of shame and… fear? No, more like anger that he didn’t want to show right now, didn’t want to look weak, trying to make everything be like before.

From the hallway came the rustle again — someone was taking off a jacket, tossing keys onto the console table. Mike turned his head toward the doorway, furrowed his brow, and took another drag.

— Kate! — a hoarse voice called from the hallway. A voice that just three months ago had belonged to him, and now sounded in such a way that Mike wanted to just cover his ears and disappear.

“Kate. And why the fuck did she decide to call me Kate right now? Is she not alone? Then what the hell, why didn’t she warn me? And anyway, I never gave her permission to bring guests here, so…”

In the doorway appeared a tall, slightly stooped figure in his old jacket, with short dark hair carelessly slicked back and with that very facial expression Mike knew far too well from when he used to look in the mirror after work. Fatigue, irritation, and an attempt to look confident even when everything inside is boiling.

— What the fuck have you been smoking in here?! — Kate asked, raising her voice so sharply that Mike flinched again and shrank a little, almost knocking over the bottle with a sudden movement of his hand. — And drinking too! Have you completely fucking lost it?!

Mike slowly lowered the cigarette, pressed his lips together and looked up at her from below — the same way he used to look up at the foreman when the guy started giving pointless lectures.

— First of all, don’t fucking yell, — he hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep his face straight. — And second, I’m home. I have the right.

Kate snorted and stepped closer, stopping right in front of the couch.

— Home? — she gave a short, mocking laugh. — You’re sitting there almost naked, with beer and a cigarette, and you’re telling me about “having the right”?

— Yes. Don’t forget who slaved their whole life away so you could—

Mike cut himself off right on the word “study” and his old familiar “live without denying yourself anything” and sharply turned away toward the window.

Long hair immediately tickled his neck and collarbones, making him irritably jerk his shoulder.

— Get dressed, for God’s sake! You’re a girl, — Kate finished, crossing her arms over her chest exactly the way Mike always used to do when he wanted to put an end to an argument.

Kate knew exactly how to hurt him. She knew far too well. But she hadn’t said it on purpose this time, even though to Mike it felt deliberate — it came more from the accumulated rage toward her boss and coworkers who pissed her off more and more every day, and whom she had to be “Mike” around.

He slowly turned his head back, narrowed his eyes and looked at her from under his brows, feeling everything inside burning with shame and irritation that immediately betrayed itself on his flushed cheeks.

— A girl… — he smirked, trying to say it roughly, but it came out somehow more cartoonish than threatening. — So you’re the big strong daddy now?

Kate flinched as if she’d been slapped. For a second she even looked lost, then her jaw clenched and her shoulders squared even more — like she’d automatically slipped back into that exact role she was exhausted from all day.

— Don’t twist it, — she cut him off sharply. — That’s not what I meant. I mean that you… — she raked him with her eyes from head to toe, not bothering to hide it. — You look like a whore after a shift, dad!

Mike didn’t immediately understand what had just happened. Something heavy sank and settled in his chest like a lead weight, and without thinking he pressed his knees tightly together and dropped his gaze, exactly the way Kate used to do in those moments when he himself had scolded her over little things like short skirts and cleavage.

—…and the Chicago Bulls lost again in the closing minutes today, — the announcer filled the sudden silence indifferently from the screen, as if nothing more important than a lost game had happened in this room.

That phrase, arriving completely out of place and out of time, snapped Mike back to reality and he suddenly became painfully aware that he was sitting on the couch, back straight, head lowered, hands resting on his pressed-together knees, feeling as though his whole body had frozen.

— There we go, good, — Kate said in a pleased voice, not hiding her surprise at the change. — Now get dressed properly and make me dinner, for fuck’s sake — you’re still living here and not moving into a dorm.

Mike’s eyes slowly, but very widely, opened.

— Dinner? — he repeated quietly, almost in a whisper, not hiding his anger even a little anymore — You’re seriously talking about dinner right now?

Kate sighed, ran a hand through her short hair and sank down onto the arm of the couch, trying not to look straight at him for too long.

— Listen… this job… — she began, trying to sound peaceful and without sarcasm, — I’m on my feet all day, dealing with all these people who drive me insane. Again digging through paperwork I don’t want to understand and never wanted to. And that goddamn Jack fucking McCormick, may the devil take him… — she waved her hand dismissively, — Seriously. You’re home all day anyway, it’s not that hard.

He lowered his gaze to his knees, to his clasped fingers. In his head floated the memory of how he himself used to say almost the exact same words — short, without explanations, absolutely certain that this was how it should be.

— I’m not home all day, — he said finally, — I was at college.

Kate rolled her eyes and leaned back, bracing her palms on the armrest.

— I know what goes on at college, — she said tiredly, but with that clear edge of superiority that used to piss her off when it came from him. — There was just one lecture. Sociology or something like that. I’m sure you didn’t even stay for the seminar afterward, just bailed the second you got the chance.

Mike felt his cheeks flare up again. He really had left early — he couldn’t stand how his classmates stared at him, how the girls kept whispering and giggling about “Kate’s weirdness,” how that fucking nerd Kevin would shyly look away the moment Mike accidentally turned his gaze in his direction.

Mike stayed silent — it seemed almost too long — but that silence spoke louder than any speech from the most eloquent prosecutor.

— There you go, — Kate huffed, then stood up and opened the window. — That’s it, Kate. This is your last warning. Pull this shit one more time and we’ll talk differently.

She leaned her palms on the windowsill, staring out into the courtyard as if gathering her thoughts. Mike stayed sitting perfectly straight, but now he could feel the tension slowly sliding downward — into his stomach, his knees, his feet. He finally exhaled.

— Differently — how exactly? — he asked without lifting his head.

Kate spun around sharply.

— Stop playing the dumb little bitch already, — she said clearly. — Three months. And what? Nothing. And I’m sure we’re not going to find anything. We’re stuck like this so…

She dropped her head, feeling a tear welling up in her eye, and strained with all her might not to let it fall. It was almost funny — in Mike’s body, crying felt like something unacceptable, something weak, as if the body itself had installed a hard emergency brake. She sucked in air deeply, sharply — the way he used to do after rough shifts.

— We’re stuck, — she repeated more quietly. — And I’m tired of pretending this is temporary.

Mike slowly raised his head.

— Kate… — he began. — Everything will be fi—

— Not Kate. Dad, — she said sternly, and for some reason pulled a stupid smile onto her face as she stepped away from the windowsill and walked toward the wardrobe.

Mike opened his mouth to say something, but while he was gathering his thoughts, something pink flew onto his lap, followed almost instantly by something blue.

A spaghetti-strap top and leggings.

— Put them on, — Kate said, already turning toward the door. — These are my favorites… I mean, yours… ah, fuck it, whatever, — she stepped sharply over the threshold and disappeared.

Mike stayed sitting. The pink top and blue leggings lay awkwardly bunched on his knees, as if they hadn’t been thrown as clothes but as a verdict. Cool air drifted in from the open window — the curtain swayed gently, carrying away the tobacco smell and the lingering bitterness of beer. The alcohol was working softly, dulling the edges of his thoughts, making everything just a little slower than usual.

He stared at the clothes for a full minute, but when another irritated rustle came from the next room, he quickly pulled everything on anyway. He stood up, feeling how the leggings fabric clung tightly to his thighs and stretched with every movement. He adjusted the slipped bra strap, trying not to look down at his own cleavage any more than necessary.

Another dissatisfied rustle came from the next room — drawers opening, footsteps, a short sharp exhale. Mike winced, tugged the hem of the top straight and headed for the door.

— I… — he started as he stepped into the hallway, and faltered.

Kate was standing by the wardrobe, back to him, already changing out of her work clothes. She didn’t turn immediately, and when she finally did, her gaze slid over him — too quickly and… somehow normal?

— Good girl, — she said after a short pause. — At least now you don’t look like a challenge to the whole fucking stairwell.

Mike pressed his lips together, nodded and looked away.

— I’ll go to the kitchen, — he muttered. — Make something.

Kate didn’t answer. She just turned back to the wardrobe. And he walked away, feeling with every step that he was moving farther and farther from who he used to be.