Blonde

"Well, it certainly does look nice," I said. "It makes you look so much different. So...."

"Sexy?" Michelle offered a self satisfied smile. "That's what Diane says. She says it turns her on." She giggled, but I couldn't tell if she was laughing her appreciation of Diane or laughing at the way my face was turning red. "I call it my 'new and improved' look."

I forced myself to turn my attention to the glasses I was drying. I finished them, put them up in the cupboard. I was trying to think of what to say next. I liked the idea that we were talking about how sexy she was, because she was sexy, but it seemed improper. I saw the solution, though.

"Well, it is new," I said, still not looking at her, "but I don't see how you could possibly improve on your looks, sweetheart." When in doubt, go for the compliment.

"Aw, thank you, New Dad," Michelle replied, but her voice sounded somewhat flat. I turned to look at her. She had her head tilted to one side, as if she was pondering a mystery. "It's weird. I mean, I look at myself in the mirror, you know? And I can see that it's not just the fact that I'm blonde now. You know?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

She looked directly at me, her large deeply set eyes all seriousness. "I mean, the blonde makes me look better, but not just from the neck up. I look better all over. Everywhere." She posed, with her hands behind her back and her small chest jutting toward me. "Don't you think?"

I blinked, unsure of what to say. She was right, she did look better everywhere, but that wasn't the issue. Was she coming on to me? Or just showing off? I was a little embarrassed to realize that I didn't mind either possibility. But at the same time I knew I couldn't let it go too far, even if she was serious. She was....almost my daughter.

I let my eyes wander over her, blatantly taking her in from head to toe, then said, "I think you've always looked fabulous, Michelle. From the moment I first saw you."

"You thought I was sexy? Even then?"

"Even then," I admitted.

Michelle dropped her pose, raised her eyebrows and nodded.

"I kinda knew that," she said.

"I don't really mean anything by it, Michelle. I-"

"Oh, don't worry, New Dad. I understand. See, I know that I'm totally gross to look at, and even more so when I'm standing next to Diane? But still, for some reason, guys think I'm hot. And now that I'm blonde they think I'm even hotter. Practically boiling. And there's no real reason why you should feel any different. I mean, you're pretty much a guy, right?"

I couldn't help but chuckle at that.

"Yes, pretty much," I said.

"So, there you go. Feel free to lust after me without feeling so guilty. Just don't let Diane see you checking me out. She gets jealous in a hurry." Michelle suddenly looked scared. "Oh, and don't let New Mom see you, either. She's your wife. Plus, I suspect she's armed."

Now I laughed.

"Your mother isn't armed," I said. "But thanks for the advice. I'll be as careful as I can."

"Careful about what?" Diane asked as she came in from the living room.

"Yes, careful about what?" Helen, right behind her, asked. Her tone was much more suspicious than Diane's, and her eyes were staring pointedly at me.

"Running with scissors," Michelle piped up. "I warned him about how dangerous that could be. Especially for people."

Diane laughed and said, "Yeah, Dad, we know how bad you are about that."

She and Michelle began to giggle, but Helen, still serious, and still throwing daggers with her eyes, said, "Yes, Martin, we all know about you."

*****

Despite how Helen and Diane seemed to be getting along, our visit didn't last one moment beyond the hour Helen had stipulated. We drove home in a relative silence that greatly resembled the silence we'd started out with, and it continued on through the rest of the evening until we went to bed. It bothered me, but by the time I turned out the light and pulled the covers up I was hoping it would stay that way; I didn't feel like laying in bed hashing over old arguments. Or any new ones, for that matter. But as soon as I was settled and had my eyes closed, Helen spoke, her voice almost startling me in the dark.

"I have to admit," she said, "she's much prettier now."

"I wouldn't say much prettier," I said cautiously. "Although she does look better."

"Don't be silly, Martin. She's gorgeous. And before, she was just plain. Gorgeous is much prettier than plain."

"That's unusual. You giving Michelle a compliment." I almost added, Are you feeling alright?

"Can't deny the obvious," Helen said. She paused for dramatic effect, then said, "Unlike you."

"Here we go again," I said.

"Actually, no. I'm not trying to start an argument, Martin. Really, I'm not."

"Then what are you trying to do?"

We were both laying on our backs, but now Helen turned onto her side and draped her arm over my stomach. She moved a little closer to me, almost snuggling up. I could feel one of her breasts barely grazing my arm.

"I'm trying to let you know," she said, "that I know what a struggle it is for you. She really is pretty, especially now. And you, you're a normal, healthy man. Why wouldn't you be attracted to her?" She moved her hand over my chest, caressing me. "I feel sorry for you, in a way. Having to keep that desire locked up and hidden. Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me whatever you want," I replied cautiously. I wasn't promising I would answer.

"Do you think about her when you make love to me?"

It was a pointless question; she knew the answer, and she knew I wouldn't lie. Still, it took me a few moments to force the word out of my mouth.

"Yes," I said. Helen was still rubbing her hand over my chest and now I began to get hard.

"You think about fucking her?" Helen asked.

It dawned on me then, what she was doing; my wife never used language like that, not in bed anyway, unless she was in the mood. A rare thing for people our age, but I was fortunate; Helen still liked to have an active sex life. But this aspect of it was new; not the use of sexual fantasy, certainly, but openly involving other people in our erotic ideas. I wondered briefly why she would be starting this now, and why Michelle, but then one of her hands moved down over my stomach and found my cock, the fingers gently encircling it, and I immediately put my questions on hold.

I was, as she said, a normal, healthy man.

"Sometimes," I said. "When I'm fucking you. When we're doing other things, then I imagine that she and I are doing those same things."

"Like when I suck your cock?" She began to stroke me.

"Yes, that. Or when I....go down on you. Whatever it is we're doing."

"I thought so," Helen said, somewhat echoing Michelle's earlier, "I kinda knew that."

"What did you want me to say, dear? Did you want me to lie?"

"No, of course not," my wife replied, still moving her hand up and down on me, "Your honesty, such as it is, is what I love about you the most. Just promise me, Martin, that you won't....let her destroy that."

"She couldn't," I said.

Helen didn't respond. Instead she kissed my cheek, then pushed back the covers and leaned over me. She took my cock into her mouth and began to suck me, as fervent and talented as she'd ever been. She did this for several minutes, bringing me close to orgasm, then stopped and rolled over on top of me. She straddled my body, took hold of my cock again and guided it into her, and we made love, perhaps more passionately than we had in years. By the time we were near the end I was on top of her, fucking her hard as she dug her fingernails into my back and cried, "Yes, yes, yes...." She came with an intensity that both surprised and gratified me, and led me on toward my own orgasm. It exploded inside of her body and she clutched me even tighter, and a sharp wordless cry escaped from her throat, as if we were sharing the same instant of physical pleasure. As if my coming was making her come. Or, as I thought about it later before falling asleep, as if she was clinging to the culmination of our union as evidence that I would not betray her.

*****

On Wednesday morning, three days later, Diane called me at work. I had just come out of a meeting with one of my more irritating clients and I wasn't in the best of moods, and the sound of my cell phone blurting in my pocket only threatened to make it worse. But as soon as I saw my daughter's work number flashing on the screen, my disposition brightened a bit.

"Hi, Daddy," Diane said when I answered. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Of course, Pumpkin," I said as I ducked into my office and shut the door. "Anything you want."

"Well, I just got a call from the pharmacy, and Michelle's medications are in. Normally, I run by and pick them up and take them to her, but I just don't have time to do it today. Do you think you could it? Do you have time?"

"Lucky for you," I said, "I do have a few hours free." I had about an hour free time, along with the hour I usually took for lunch.

"Oh, great, thank you, Daddy," Diane said.

"You should call the pharmacy, though, and let them know I'll be the one picking up the meds."

Diane offered a sweet laugh and said, "I already did."

I laughed too. "Well, what about Michelle? Does she know I'll be dropping off her medication?"

"Um, no. And you know how she is, she won't even listen to the answering machine, let alone pick up the phone." Michelle had a paranoid fear of such things. "But I'm sure it won't be a problem. As soon as she sees it's you at the door, she'll be okay. I gotta go. Thanks again, Daddy, you're the best."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," I said, but by the time I finished the sentence she had already hung up.

*****

I considered taking a quick lunch before running Diane's errand, but decided instead that I'd just get something to eat at her house. I went directly to the pharmacy and picked up the bag of meds, four small plastic bottles filled with tiny pills, and drove over to my daughters' house. I parked and went up to the door, paused just before I knocked, recalling that Michelle had once told me that knocks on the door tended to startle her. I rang the doorbell instead. A few moments passed before I saw the curtain in the door's window move, and then two big dark eyes peeking out at me. I smiled and waved and the curtain closed and the door came open.

"Hi, New Dad!" Michelle said, a huge grin on her face. She was dressed, as usual, in a matching set of teeshirt and jeans, this time bright cherry red. Her hair was still blonde, although it wasn't nearly as tidy as it had been on Sunday. In fact, Michelle looked as if she'd recently been caught in a windstorm.

"Hello, Princess," I said. I held out the bag. "I brought your medications."

She dropped her gaze to the bag, looking either mystified or disappointed, I couldn't tell, and said, "Oh. Well, there you go, then." She reached out and snatched the bag, held it up to the sunlight. "There's no plutonium in here, is there?"

"I don't think so," I replied. "Would you mind if I came in, dear? I haven't had lunch, and I was hoping I could get a sandwich or something."

"Oh, sure, New Dad. Come on in."

She pushed the door open a little further, then turned and walked away as if I wasn't even there. It was a habit of hers. I followed her into the house, through the living room and into the kitchen as she explained, "You're in luck. I know how to make sandwiches."

"You don't have to make it yourself, Michelle. I can make myself something to eat."

"No, sit." She pointed to one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. "I'll make you something tasty. You want coffee too? I'll get you some coffee."

I sat and watched her as she went to the cupboard, took down a cup, and poured some coffee for me. Her back was to me and I had an opportunity to look at her ass. It was remarkably tiny, but then everything on Michelle was small. She was twenty years old now but she was still often mistaken for a teenager; she'd told me only a month ago about how, when she was strolling by herself downtown, a police officer had stopped her and asked why she wasn't in school.

She brought the coffee over to me, told me, "Happy caffeine," then proceeded to make me a sandwich. I continued to direct my attention to various parts of her body as she worked, spreading mustard on wheat bread, then stacking several layers of ham, cheese, and lettuce. She hummed to herself during all this, a strangely uneven tune that for some reason sounded haunted to me. When she was done she brought the sandwich over, saying, "Here you go, Bill. Don't eat it all in one place. And don't worry, I didn't poison it."

"Thank you, sweetheart," I said.

I smiled at her, then took up my sandwich and started to eat. Michelle came around the counter and stood next to me like a nurse monitoring a patient, and I was intensely aware of how close she was; if I moved my elbow just a few inches toward her I could bump her with it. Her little left breast was dangerously close to my shoulder. I thought I could smell perfume.

"This is delicious, Michelle," I said, my mouth half full.

"Glad I could help," Michelle replied. She moved away from me, went around to the other side of the counter, sat on a barstool. She sipped some of her coffee, then said, "I'm guessing that my blondeness is still magnificent." She passed her hand over her wild hair, not affecting it in the least. "Despite the mess."

I swallowed the food in my mouth and replied, "Yes, you're still just as gorgeous as ever."

She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the counter, took one out, and lit it. This was another, more glaring difference between her and Diane; Diane didn't smoke, and tended to nag those who did.

"You realize, don't you, that this makes me blonde number three?"

"Blonde number three?"

"Number three." She took a drag from her cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke. "New Mom, Diane, and now me. We're all blonde. I finally fit in. Of course, mine is manufactured, but then I'm hardly a person to begin with."

"You seem real enough to me," I said. My gaze had been focused on the ends of her hair, which fell in scatters over her small shoulders, but now, as if they had a will of their own, my eyes drifted down over her breasts. Michelle was leaning forward over the counter, pressing her belly against the edge, and this was causing her teeshirt to stretch snugly on her, and I could see the barest hint of nipples through the bright red fabric.

I didn't know if the direction of my gaze had anything to do with it, but for some reason Michelle giggled, then said, "Parts of me are more real than others, I guess." I brought my eyes back up to meet hers. She was holding her cigarette in her left hand, letting it dangle between two fingers as smoke lazily drifted from the tip. "I was going to ask you if you think it's pretty, but I asked you that Sunday. I believe you gave me a favorable review."

"You could ask again if you like. I won't mind telling you twice."

"You said I was sexy. Well, you didn't actually say that. I said it, and you acquiesced."

"Quite readily, if I remember correctly," I said.

"You remember correctly," Michelle replied, her girlish voice taking on the tone of a parent admonishing a child. "You remember lots of things." I got the feeling she was going to say more, but she didn't; instead she just continued to sit there, leaning toward me over the counter, cigarette in her hand, staring at me.

"Everything alright, Michelle?" I asked.

"Probably," she replied. She looked down at my sandwich, already half gone. "Hey, you know what we could do? We could look at some of Diane's new pictures. They're neat. I promise."

Diane was a photojournalist for the city newspaper, but she was also a fairly noteworthy photographic artist in the community. She'd already staged two shows of original work, and she was currently organizing a third for a Seattle art gallery.

"I'd love to," I said.

"They're in her studio. Come on."

She got up and went out of the kitchen. I put my sandwich down on the counter (where it would stay, unfinished) and followed her.

For reasons I wasn't informed of, the girls had separate bedrooms. Diane's was first on the left down the hallway, and Michelle's was next to it. On the other side of the hallway was the bathroom, and next to that, across from Michelle's room, was the spare bedroom that Diane had converted into her photo studio. Unlike what I imagined most artists' studios to be like, Diane's was neat and clean and bright with color and light. The walls were covered with photos, mostly from the shows she'd done, although there were some family photos as well. There were several file cabinets lining the walls on the left, a writing desk squeezed between them directly under the window. On the far wall was a stereo system, bookended by a large steamer trunk and a bed, without headboard or footboard, pushed into the corner on the other side. I remembered the bed; Diane had bought it when she was still living at home, before Michelle, and put it in the garage to have something to sleep on when she was immersed in her work. I used to think that she'd gotten the bed simply to get away from me and Helen when she felt like it, but seeing it here, in the home she shared with Michelle, seemed to disprove that idea. Maybe, I wondered as Michelle moved further into the room and I followed, Michelle used the bed to keep Diane company when the obsession of processing photographs took my daughter over. Then, without warning, I recalled the moment I'd discovered them in bed together, and I wondered if the girls had ever made love on this bed. I supposed they had, but I forced myself to resist imagining what that might look like.

Michelle went to the desk and picked up a manila envelope, looked at it for a moment, then opened it and took out a small stack of photos.

"Hope these are copies," she said, then held them out to me. "Diane hates it when I get fingerprints on her pictures."

I took the photos and looked at the top one. An eight by ten glossy of an old building downtown that was being renovated. Black and white, of course; Diane rarely took any photos in color. The next photo was of the same building, only from another angle. The next one as well. There were ten photos, all of them of the same building, all from different perspectives.

"Why would she take all these pictures of the same building?" I asked.

Michelle shrugged and replied, "Beats me. Diane gets a lot of crazy ideas. Those pictures are just the tip of her iceberg."

"What does that mean? I asked.

"Well, okay, if you're gonna twist my arm." Michelle turned back to the desk, opened the center drawer, and pulled out another manila envelope. She held it out to me. "Check out this nuttyness."

I took the envelope and reached inside, drew out another small stack of photos.

"Hope those are copies," Michelle said.

They were, oddly enough, color photos, of Michelle with her new blonde hair. The first one showed her simply standing in front of the studio's window, her hands at her sides and an expression on her face that seemed to indicate that she was posing under duress. She was wearing the same outfit she was now, bright red teeshirt and jeans. The second photo was the same, except in this one she had her hands on her hips. Even the impatient look on her face was the same. The third photo reminded me of how she'd posed for me in the kitchen, with her hands behind her back and her chest pushed out. The only difference was that, in this photo, she was pouting like a little girl.

"You like that one?" Michelle asked in a small soft voice. She'd moved to my side so that she could look at the pictures along with me.

"Very nice," I said.

"It's Diane's favorite. Except for the nudie ones."