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Karter Wilson: An hour? Fuck that. Did you not read my first message? I’m dying. Like DYING. I’m dressed inappropriately as well. Come as you are. Make it quick. *collapses to floor and drops phone*
I laughed audibly and shook my head. Damn, this girl seemed to be exactly what I needed. If nothing else, she would keep me on my toes. I looked down at my sweaty shorts and pressed my hand against the chest of my tee shirt. Wet.
If she’s truly dying I suppose it’s my solemn duty to attempt to save her.
I typed a quick response and pressed send.
En route. ETA fifteen minutes.
I tossed my phone onto the bag and started the truck. As I backed away from the parking stall, my phone beeped. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. After I stopped the truck and pushed the gear shifter into park, I picked up the phone and glanced at the screen.
Karter Wilson: *coughs* Hurry. I’ll be on the floor. *coughs again* If I appear lifeless, it’s your fucking fault. Perform CPR as necessary. *crawls and unlocks door*
As I drove toward downtown, I found it odd out of everything we had discussed the previous day, we neglected our jobs. Although I purposely didn’t ask her of hers, she offered the fact she painted. At the time I had no idea if it was a full-time job or a hobby. The fact Karter now mentioned she couldn’t paint and was home during the work day led me to believe it may be her job.
I was reluctant to offer my employment history because I didn’t want her to determine my age - at least not yet. If she was in her latter twenties as I suspected, I was at least ten years her senior. If we continued along the same path, it would stand to reason after six months of further developing attractions toward one another, age would never become an issue. I felt if she provided me an opportunity to show her who I was and how I was capable of caring for her, she’d accept my age as being just what it was - a mere number.
As I exited the highway into downtown, I chuckled at applying the government’s position on gays in the military to our age difference.
Don’t ask - don’t tell.
It had been a little more than twenty years since I spent any time in Wichita, but it didn’t matter much. The downtown area remained unchanged for the most part. I was well aware of where her apartment building was located as I had viewed them when I arrived to town a matter of a few days prior. Whether it would prove to be a blessing or a curse was yet to be determined, but I lived three short blocks from her location.
I had grown up in a small town thirty miles outside of Wichita, and had gone to school there from kindergarten to my senior year in high school. During my initial training, my mother relocated to Wichita and remained there. This made my selection of a location to retire rather easy. I had no intent of visiting my home town or anyone in it, and as far as I was concerned if I lived in a city of almost half a million people, no one would know or recognize me. In a sense, I was obtaining a fresh start in a new city.
I parked my truck in the street outside her apartment building. After a precursory glance in the rearview mirror, I decided it really didn’t matter. I couldn’t change anything if I wanted to. I was without any cologne, brush, comb, or clean clothes. I had no idea my morning would have eventually led me to Karter’s apartment. Surprisingly, I felt comfortable seeing her covered in sweat and dressed in my PT gear.
As I knocked on the door of her apartment the sound from inside resembled a herd of elephants being assembled for a circus. Eventually, the door opened and Karter stood before me dressed in paint covered sweats, canvas sneakers, a Rolling Stones tee shirt, and a beanie. The shirt appeared to be something she had used for years, as it was covered in both wet and dry paint. The beanie rested atop her head more as an adornment than a necessity. As she swung the door open she waved her free arm toward the ridiculously colorful apartment.
“Mi casa, su casa,” she said softly as she waved her arm.
I quickly surveyed the very large open area and couldn’t help but grin at the furnishings and her choice of decorative accents. Three unmatched sofas sat in the front room, but they worked very well together. Various paintings littered the walls; most I now assumed were the result of her mind’s creative talent. Each wall was painted a different color, all bright and colorful. In the far corner sat a wooden trunk with an old glass screened television lying on its side. Numerous light fixtures hung from the ceiling, all at different elevations. After a split second inventory, I turned to her and smiled.
“Su casa es muy colorido. Me gusta su elección de ropa, eres muy linda,” I responded without thinking.
She raised one eyebrow, “Huh?”
The look on her face was clear. She didn’t speak Spanish. I asked anyway, “You don’t speak Spanish?”
“Negative Ghostrider,” she said flatly.
“What the fuck did you say?” she asked as she released the door.
“Well, I said your home is very colorful, and you look cute. Well, I actually said I like your choice of clothes and you look cute,” I said as I stepped past her.
“Me or the clothes?” she asked the instant I finished speaking.
“Both. Your tee shirt choices are great. I’ve seen two so far, and I like them both. Your sweats are, well,” I paused and looked down at her skin tight sweats which were cut off right below her knees.
Her calves were tan and smooth. She didn’t appear overly athletic nor did she seem out of shape. I guessed her to have naturally good genes which afforded her a well put together physique of average proportions. As I found myself lost in my admiration of her legs, she snapped her fingers loudly.
She wagged her hand in the air in front of her face, “Dude, snap out of it. I’ll change the cocksucker’s if you don’t like ‘em. Hold please.”
She no more than finished speaking and bounced through the apartment like a deer chasing after a mate. Swiftly, she disappeared into an open rear bedroom. After a few seconds of grunting and what I assumed was rustling through her available clothes, she stepped into the opening of the bedroom door.
She raised her arms parallel with the floor and motioned toward her torso with her index fingers, “Tadahhh.”
She stood in the doorway wearing a relatively paint free Bod Dylan tee shirt, shorts with more holes than actual available material, and a curved bill baseball style cap with the phrase Fuck Off stenciled across the front of the crown. Now barefoot, she performed a slow pirouette in the doorway, revealing a fabulously rounded ass, some of which was exposed by the six-inch rip in the rear of her jean shorts immediately below her left butt cheek.
