Reality is Different Ch. 05

All characters over 18.

I rest my head against the window, looking out through dirt-streaked glass as we take the last few curves that lead up to the house. My eyes anticipate the homes that line the way, flickering to them for little moments in a kind of quiet countdown. It's dark now, late - or late-ish, anyway. Half past eight, according to the LCD display that's glowing steady from the dash. The vague unease, the tugging of discomfort in my stomach only makes it feel later, like I'm in a scene that already should have ended. The early nights of autumn, too. It's a relief to glance ahead and see the outlines of the house swing familiar into view, the gentle-angled roof and light blue facing of the home I've had for all my life. To hear the faintly injured squealing of the brakes as we pull up a moment later, as the aging hatchback grinds protesting to a stop.

"Well. Here we are."

He's a little chubbier than how the photo looked. Andy is. Andrew. Mostly in the face, I guess, a puffiness like baby fat that clashes with the rest of his appearance. It stands up on his cheeks in two big bubbles when he smiles, which he seems to do a lot...a kind of smile, anyway. An awkward kind, uncomfortable and nervous. Which, and if I'm being honest, is probably the same way mine have been as well, uncertain how to treat him, what to do. Uncertain what I even want this halfway date of ours to be, or what I wanted it to be. Wondering if it makes sense to say you're pleased with disappointment.

"Anyway, uh." He speaks again, after a second's silence. "I suppose I should, um - escort the fair lady to the door, huh?" Another tight and clumsy grimace of a grin - he aims it at me for a moment so I can see that it's a joke. Or something like a joke, at any rate. The flicker of a smile that I return must come across as an encouragement, because he swiftly lurches from his seat and scurries round the car to open up my door for me, and slam it shut once I get out. Chivalrous, I guess. I'm sure that's what he's going for, at least, walking carefully a foot or two away from me as we head up to the house, stopping just before the door.

"I, ah." He's first to speak, again. It's been that way all afternoon, all evening, me mostly just responding - which isn't really fair to him, I know. It bothers me, somewhat. He tried, for this. He decided where to go, came up with conversation, paid for everything, and I haven't even really given him all that much of a chance. Didn't start the evening with that much of an open mind, an open heart, despite what I intended. "I don't know about you, but I had fun tonight." He even sounds sincere. As far as I can tell.

"Yeah." I'm not sure I do, as much. "It was interesting. I'm...I'm glad we did this. Glad we met."

It's obviously not an accident, the tiny step he takes towards me, the way his arm lifts barely upward. I can see the worry in his eye, the calculation. Desperation, maybe. "You think, ah..." His voice emerges slightly chirpy, tight - he coughs a little, and when he tries again it's dropped into a timbre low enough to sound a trifle forced. "Think it's the kind of evening that should end with a kiss? I'm not too sure, myself."

Jesus. "Um." My gaze flits over to the door as though attempting to escape, but only manages to batter fruitlessly against the simple patterns in the wood. I don't know what I ought to say to this. I don't know even what I really ought to feel, if the aversive apathy that's curdled in my stomach is the reaction I'd have always felt after the evening I've just had with him, or if it's just a product of my own particular insanity. Of the fantasies I halfway tried to leave behind when we set out this afternoon, so I at least could give this guy some fraction of a chance, an opportunity. Could find out maybe if I am just in a phase, a passing fancy, a fixation that could be swept aside when I run into someone new. An ordinary boy, who likes me as I am.

"Yeah, I guess not." He volunteers the answer for himself, after a couple seconds of my silence. Plainly disappointed, embarrassed, though he tries to hide it with another awkward grin, an easygoing shrug. He starts to push his hand towards me instead, as though to offer up a handshake, but seems to change his mind before it's halfway there, and redirects the motion to a vague and formless gesture as he begins to back away. "Maybe next time, huh? If - yeah." Another couple steps, still walking backwards; he manages to make his way down from the porch comparatively gracefully, all things considered. "I'll give you a call sometime, the next few days. Or I'll...don't have your number, do I. We can exchange-"

For a moment there, he dances through a quick, abortive little shuffle, stepping back towards me again and then rethinking it immediately afterward, apparently preferring not to lose the progress that he's made on this farewell. "-no, I'll just get it from your dad. Well, from my dad. From...hah. Oh my god." That last bit muttered barely audible, underneath his breath, before he crisply finishes. "I'll get it. I'll call you. Good night."

"Good night." I give a little wave as well, despite the fact that he's already turned around. Watching as he walks back quickly, stiffly to the shabby car that's parked right at the curb, his shoulders lifted high and tight. Seething with self-loathing, if I had to make a guess. And it's a little weird, I know, but I think I feel a greater kinship with the guy, seeing this, than I have in all the other hours that we spent in one another's company. A spark of recognition, sympathy, if not quite of affection...I know that awkwardness myself, the fumbling with what you hoped to do, with what seemed so easy in your head. The stinging judgment that descends when you just know you've come off as a fool, and you can only pray you didn't look as clumsy in the other person's eyes as you appeared in yours. It's comforting to see it, in a way. Nice to know I'm not the only one who struggles with the curse of self-awareness, the inner critic always waiting to harangue you for everything that you've done wrong.

It's still a definite relief, though, to turn around and head inside, to leave behind the deepening of night, and all the evening's uncomfortable moments that I would just as soon forget. I breathe a little easier just stepping through the door into the living room, the feeling of it warm and welcoming beneath the steady incandescent lights. The television's off, the couch abandoned...huh. Maybe dad's out in the garage. Usually he doesn't leave the lights on when he-

"How'd it go?"

I almost jump out of my skin to hear him speak up suddenly behind me, letting out a startled little yelp before I whirl around. He's sitting by the window, in the easy chair that no one ever uses, practically. His eyebrow raised at my response, a tiny smile curving at the corner of his mouth. "Jeez, dad, you scared the - heck out of me."

"Sorry." He chuckles briefly, sounding more amused than actually apologetic. "Your poor old dad was just watching out for when you would come home." A twinkle as his eye, as his voice drops down near mourning. "I've been worried sick, you know. My only daughter, staying out until all hours with dangerous characters."

Oh, brother. I roll my eyes, but I can't keep myself from smiling. My heartbeat flowing smoothly from the rapidness of fright into that of faint and prickling excitement. I can feel my insides melting warm and gooey just to look at him again, just to gaze upon my daddy's stubbled, handsome features, as though it were uncounted weeks since last I saw him, instead of only half a day. "Silly." Teasing, as I wander up a little closer, baby steps that bring me near. He's sitting back, relaxed, his hair a trifle mussed. A book held in his hand, beside him, one finger held inside to keep his place. "You're the one that set me up with him. It's completely your own fault."

"Too true, too true." He sighs at that, theatrical, and softly clucks his tongue. "Really, I'm just sorry that I didn't get the chance to put the fear of god into the guy before he picked you up. It's about the only fun a father gets on days like this. Feels somehow wrong to miss it."

My smile quirks up sideways, wry, a little secret. "Yeah, I kinda hoped that you would be here, too." If not for entirely the same reasons...it was partially my own idea, partially suggestions from my co-conspirator, but I'd had some thoughts about the way the preparation for my date could go, the opportunities it might afford between me and my dad. There was certainly a fantasy in it, that he'd burst in on me as I was in the bathroom putting on cosmetics, abruptly grabby and demanding, transformed into a father from the stories. That he would touch me, bend me over, lift me off the floor and pin me to the counter, claim my body for his own before my suitor has a chance - I played that one out a couple times, inside my head. But there were other thoughts as well, a little more believable. Things that I could do. Advice. If I came downstairs as I was getting ready for the date to ask him what he thinks I ought to wear, what outfit might look good on me.

He'd probably protest, at first. He'd say he doesn't know, that he isn't any good at helping with that kind of thing. Or maybe he would joke around, instead - "A burqa." I can almost hear him say it, hear the quiet laughter in his eyes. "It'd be very you, I think. And it's 'in' this season, too, I think."

"Daddy!" I'd have to whine a little, scold him, plead to get us back in the direction that I hoped. Or maybe I would have to stick with 'dad.' "Come on, really. I need to know what I should wear." And I could maybe bite my lower lip a moment, looking hopeful up into his eyes. "What would you want to see me in, if you were a guy?"

I thought that it would be a kind of clever line, at least. If you were a guy - he'd laugh if I said that, I'm pretty sure, would act offended, wounded, as if I'd just dealt him a mortal blow. And I could giggle softly, shake my head, tell him "You know what I mean" - but the question would remain, now defanged of its suggestiveness by that little back-and-forth. How does he like his women dressed? What could I wear to catch the spark of his desire, if he should look at me the way he'd look at any other girl on the street? He'd have to think of it, at least a little bit. He'd have to answer something, even if it was only something careful, indirect. Certainly I can't imagine he would tell me that I should show off my breasts, or that I should squeeze myself into some tiny latex miniskirt...but I could still search for secret meanings in whatever he did say, could obey them ever after. If he mentioned anything about my legs, I could leave them bare forever, refuse to ever touch a pair of pants again. If he asked about my makeup, I could buy a whole new kit, paint myself up dark and vibrant for him every day. If he talked about high heels, I could learn to wear them better than I have, could slip into stilettos when I go to meet him at the door, when I walk around the house, giving him the best view that I could.

That was the idea, anyway. But it pretty much relied upon him being there before I left. The vague ambitions that I had, as well, of halfway modeling for him the clothes that I could wear, holding them against my body so that he could see how they would look, while really my attention, my intention would be on the moments I was switching from one outfit to another, allowing him these momentary glimpses of how little I was truly wearing underneath. A camisole, perhaps. A pair of panties, striped in white and baby blue...and nothing else, the rest of me exposed, revealed for my daddy's gaze...

It's crazy, maybe. Probably. I wouldn't really have gone through with it, a lot of it, if he'd been home. I don't think I would have, anyway. But I've been feeling kinda crazy lately, in these past few days. Daring. Eager and excited, driven by that manic little part of me that's foolishly emboldened by that recent evening that we spent, the experience of being carried in his arms upstairs, kissed so light and loving on the forehead. I know I can't read that much into it, not truly...but my heart still tries to, all the same, dwelling on the memory any time it gets the chance, and it's hard to keep the rest of me from being pulled along. I've been wearing that same shirt again, the past few nights, hoping that he likes to see me in it, or at least that it might offer me some modicum of luck. And I've been going down the stairs without a bra more often, in the morning, in the night. Still nervous, every time I do...but it's getting easier, I feel like. I'm getting used to it, enough to really face him, to talk to him like that. While still the feelings it evokes of nakedness, transgression circle anxious and delicious in my stomach. Knowing he could look at me, can see the outline of my breasts beneath the thin and tattered shirts I'm wearing. Can see the little pebbles there that top them off, hard with the excitement, the arousal that seems an almost constant part of me these days. A thrilling, agonizing itch.

Even now, I feel it. Standing here before him, creeping close. A moment since I've spoken. His body fills up the recliner pretty much completely, his arms at rest upon the sides. No room for me to plop myself beside him, nestle close against his chest, the way I would if he were on the couch. And even though I know it would be foolish, there's a part of me that wants to climb into his lap instead, to curl up against him, to be enfolded in his arms...or more than simply wants to, really. A part of me that says I should. That treats it not as just a fantasy, but as something real, something I could do, should do. An urge that softly pulses in my chest until I force myself to gingerly set down instead upon the corner of the coffee table. Still close to him, this way - my knee is almost touched to his, between us. But not as dangerous as what that wild part of me desires. "I, um. It might be luckier that way, I think."

"Hm." His eyebrow lifts a tiny bit, his smile quirking broad and curious. "Haven't heard that one before. Maybe so, though, maybe so." He looks at me a moment longer, appraisingly, before letting out a little tch, sucking air between his teeth. "Take it the evening didn't go so well."

"You could say that." I quirk a crooked smile at him, shake my head. A trace of the theatrical inside my voice, to pour out my travails. "He basically just asked if he should kiss me, back there at the door."

"Ouch." He laughs at that, amused and sympathetic. "That's...well, a rookie mistake, at best." And there's a beat before he adds, "Still, at least that means he likes you, right?"

"Yeah." I grant the fact without enthusiasm, glancing off into the corner with a little shrug. "I guess so, anyway. Not too sure about the other way around, though."

"Ah." There's understanding in his gaze as he exhales for a moment, settles slightly back into the chair. A wry expression on his face. "That's a bit more of a problem, I suppose. Kid turn out to be a jerk or something?"

"No, no." I shake my head at that, mild but emphatic. "Nothing like that, really. He seemed...okay. I mean, it isn't like I couldn't stand the guy or anything. It's just..." A sigh, a frown, another shrug, glancing up into my father's features. The implicit question in his eyes. "There's just a lot of little things, you know? Like, even right when he showed up - and I know this isn't really fair, I mean, I wouldn't want for anyone to decide the way they felt about me because of it. But he was...short, kinda. Shorter than me, at least."

"Mmm." His answer sympathetic, soft and understated. "I think I see how that could be a problem."

"Yeah." Hesitation for a moment, as my eyes touch briefly onto his and dodge away again. As nervous feeling tickles, tightens at my throat. Familiar. Wondering how I can say what's in my thoughts, if I should say it. "I mean, I feel like I want somebody who - who can make me feel small, you know? Someone who..." Trailing off. I'm not sure that I can speak the rest, the words that whisper in my head. Someone big and strong enough to feel like my protector. Someone powerful enough that he could effortlessly overwhelm me, if he chose, could bury me beneath his size, his bulk. Someone like you. Exactly like you, daddy...

"You've kind of mentioned that before, I know." He says it quietly, after a moment of my silence. "How you hated being tall, how..." An idle gesture speaks the rest of my complaints, the grief I spilled upon the subject in the middle of my teenage years, when everything was an injustice. "Guess you can blame me for that one, huh?"

"I guess so." A feeble smile flashes wry in my expression, glancing up again to meet his eyes. Just for a second. It's often difficult for me to keep them there, of late, hard to maintain my gaze in his. The electric spark of contact builds so quickly in my stomach when I look into his eyes, rising stronger than I can endure, until I have to drop mine down again, dazzled, like I'm staring at the sun. Seek out safety in his shirt, or in my hands, or on the floor...at least for a little while, until I feel brave enough to try again. I know I'm doing it. I know it must seem weird, if it's something that he notices. But I can't exactly help it now, can't bring myself to meet his level gaze for an extended period without my insides twisting furious around each other, without a blush igniting bright and crimson on my cheeks.

And the crazy, dreamy part of me, the part that spins out all my fantasies - she's eager to declare it as a sign, of course, as a symbol of significance. Calling into mind a handful of the stories that I've read, where the Daddy taught his daughter to be properly submissive to his will, to hide her eyes until he graced her by the speaking of her name. I'm not even sure exactly what I think of that, in honesty, if I'd say I like the notion of it...but either way, there's a certain thrill I can't deny to see my actions through that lens. To halfway pretend it's what I'm doing, that it's why.

"That's not the only problem with him, though." I speak up again before my silence can drag on too long. "He was also...I mean, as long as I'm being unfair. I didn't really like his voice."

"His voice?" A shadow of surprise, his eyebrow lifting slightly.

"No." I shake my head, definitive. "It was all, like, reedy, thin. A little squeaky, even. Not unbearable or anything, but I just didn't - bleh."

"I see." He speaks it quietly bemused, amused. "You do have your standards, don't you." Teasing, gently.

"It's important!" I briefly stamp a serious expression on my face, a tiny moue. Evaporating once again as I continue, dissolved to a self-conscious little smile. "How somebody sounds. Come on, you know what I mean. You can barely stand to listen to some people. And then some others just have really sexy voices, that they get inside your head and you just want to...mph." A vague and muffled sound, to swallow up the rest of the suggestion before I have to give it shape. I'm pretty sure I'm blushing as it is, just with what I've said already. Just with what I'm thinking, the 'some people' that I have in mind. My father's voice, its dusky richness and its timbre, the faint vibration that it seems to carry through the air and up my spine...how could Andrew compare?

A part of me does wonder, just a bit. If I'm being honest with myself. Which way the connection really flows. Am I having all these feelings, all these fantasies about my dad because of how he looks, because of how his voice affects me? Or do I only tingle at the sound of it because of how I feel already, because I've cast him into all these dreams, put so many words into his mouth? I told myself that I would try to give this other guy a chance, that I'd let myself be open to the possibilities...but did I, really? Or did I only seize upon the ways he wasn't like my father, and reject him for the difference? Holding tightly to this crazy thought inside of me, the slender thread of hope.