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"Oh, this is not going to end well."
Those were the first words she ever spoke to me after doing a once-over similar to the one I had given her.
And it was an utterly fucking prescient thing to say.
It eventually came true.
It didn't end well.
"Erica was, I don't know, she was everything I wasn't," I admitted.
I guess that was, initially, her appeal.
She was loud, opinionated, fearless, bold, and sure of herself.
You can't grow up with the women in my family and not know how to throw your attitude around.
She was Staten Island born and raised, with the accent and mindset to match.
It's just a different world over there, know what I'm saying? Different. Not better. Except the heroes. Those are better.
She told me this over the next three days while I dragged out the job, knowing her landlord was footing the bill, and simply wanting to see if I could find an in, find a way to ask her out.
I never did, as it turned out.
As soon as I declared I was finished as I put my tools back in the box propped on the folding table she used for dining, but covered in a blue, white, and gold swirled tablecloth, she grabbed me, and made it clear she was the kind of woman who was okay with taking the lead.
Right back into her bedroom.
Where she fucked me in a way only an older, more secure woman can. With everything she had. With demands. With expectations.
It was, to someone who was used to women his own age - tentative and too worried about pleasing me - fucking addictive.
It was on our third day of fucking that I realized that Erica wasn't just a ballbuster from Long Island who fucked like a porn star and had a weird sub obsession.
"Oh, hey," I said, walking into her living room, stopping short at seeing a kid sitting there, eyes glued to the handheld gaming system, but not seeming to actually play the game, just watching. "Is Erica here?" I asked, brows furrowed that he didn't even so much as look up at me, a stranger in the room.
"He doesn't talk," Erica said, breezing in, her hair swinging behind her, filling the room with the perfume she sprayed on her brush to work through the strands - sweet pea something. It was a little too sweet for my taste, but it reminded me of her riding me, her hair falling like a curtain around my head. And, well, that wasn't a bad thing to be reminded of.
"He doesn't talk?" I repeated, looking over at the kid again. I wasn't great with kid ages either, but he had to be at least eight. Eight-year-olds talked. Pretty much... always. I think Einstein or some shit was an exception.
"Yeah, you know... he has that processing thing. With the puzzle pieces," Erica said, making me jerk back a bit at the comment, at the almost callous way she said it.
"Autism?" I clarified. "He's autistic?"
"Yeah, that's it," she agreed, walking over to him, and putting a cup of milk at his side, making me wonder a bit fleetingly - even though it was none of my business - if this kid's mother knew how uninformed Erica was about these things when she was entrusting her with his care. I mean, I didn't know dick about autism either. But I knew most people at least knew what it was called. "He doesn't talk or make eye-contact. He stares at that game all day. Or the TV. Sorry, normally he is with the lady across the street during the day. She came down with the flu."
"So you're helping out?"
"With her flu?" she asked, face screwed up.
"With the kid."
"Baby, he's my kid," she said, her tone like she was talking to an idiot. "You've fucked me in every position in every room of this house. In bright light. You didn't notice the claw marks across my stomach?"
Okay, so she had stretch marks. What woman didn't? I didn't think anything of it.
"So, you're a mom," I said dumbly, trying to wrap my head around the revelation.
"This is the part where you say something came up, and run far and fast, right?" she asked, crossing her arms, lifting her chin, flinging attitude without even having to say much. She was good at that. "Go on. Whatchu waiting for? Just gave you permission."
I did want to run.
I have always been secure enough to admit that I didn't think I was ready for this. For kids and maturity. I was hardly more than a kid myself.
But I couldn't do it.
I couldn't turn away.
And it wasn't because I was that into Erica. To be honest, she was a good fuck. But she was a bit much for me. Too much to handle, I guess.
But I couldn't go.
Simply because she expected me to be that guy. And I didn't want to be that guy.
