City Planner

"It looks done," she said, "but it isn't; there's still quite a lot to do."

"What have you done?" It was a brand new kitchen. "You even got new appliances."

We drove in absolute silence. I knew I was pouting and so did she. Just before we got out she said, "Look, if we move in together I'm just investing in us, if we don't, you'll pay me back — I trust you. It's no big deal."

"You don't just rebuild a guy's house, no one does that ..."

"You weren't, you were too busy. I've got the connections and the money, it was no big deal and it isn't finished yet, you have all kinds of decisions to make."

That was bullshit, the place looked done to me.

"A couple of light fixtures ... furniture ..." she saw I was about to explode ... "All your stuff had to go, it was crap, absolute crap; you couldn't have crap like that in a new house, that's ridiculous."

There wasn't a scintilla of doubt about how it was going to play out, that was obvious the moment we got inside the house. Sharon was right, it's always about the man: Erica had found the one she wants and she wanted the world to know it. I am this, I am that and I am the other bloody thing, I've never been such a fucking star ... I didn't recognize myself and I've never been as embarrassed.

She was driving, I drank my way through it all. "We should have discussed it, that's all I'm saying."

"Discussed it, as if you're a talker. You aren't, most of the time you don't finish your sentence. What options were there? Your house was fucking gutted ..."

"You gutted it, I was going to do one room at a time."

She has a way of scoffing at me that I hate. "When? The place was a dump. Why don't you just thank me, like, thanks Erica, the places looks fabulous ... and then you can let me know if I'm going to move into that little bit of fabulous with you."

Three times tonight I had felt my fingernails trying to dig into a rock face as I was sliding down it.

"That's another thing about you," she said, as we walked to her door. "Do you even know you're doing it? Every time we get to a point where you're supposed to say something ... make a decision, you don't say anything, you don't say, yes or no or let me think about it, you just don't say anything and it really pisses me off. It's not mature, Mike, like no one reacts like that."

I got a beer when I got inside and sat down in the most comfortable chair and let my mind go blank with the booze.

It was obvious I didn't want to deal with this right now. But she did. Did she soften up to do it? No. Her little black eyes just got more fierce. "What do you want? Have you ever thought about that or is it just like your house ... I'll get to it, do it one room at a time, make one small decision at a time. We need a plan. We," she repeated and stressed, "I need one and you need one. I think they should be the same plan but maybe you don't. Fine, but if that's the way it's going to be you have to tell me what your plan is and why I'm not going to be in it."

"I'm drunk," I wasn't but I wanted to be.

"Then maybe you can talk ... maybe you'll finish a fucking sentence."

"You scare me."

"You scare ME ... you're so fucking irresponsible."

"Even so, I probably love you, but Jesus, do I want all the aggro?"

"What aggro? The cooking aggro? The cleaning aggro? The getting things done aggro? The bending over backwards to please you aggro — half the time literally and without my clothes on."

"You're so fucking tough. Don't you ever lighten up, like have a few drinks, kick back, smell the flowers? Fuck."

"So you love me?"

I peeked up at her to see how she was taking it. "Probably."

"What do you mean probably, you either do or you don't and you'd better bloody well answer the fucking question."

"Why should I answer that question, you'll just use my answer against me."

"Do you have any idea how stupid that is?"

"You will ... that's what you do."

"Like how did I use them against you when I took all my clothes off for you? And how did I use them against you when I helped you do your house? And how do I use them against you when I fall all over you trying to please you? And how do I use them against you when I told them tonight what a great fucking guy you are? And how ...

"I don't know but that's what happens."

"And it's worked out so badly for you? You've found a woman who loves you; a woman who has shown she loves you every minute she's been with you; a woman who will do anything for you and, oh ya, you've got a new house which I want to make a loving fucking home with you — you can blame me for that, too."

I thought the beady black eyes might have some tears in them. But they didn't. "As if I'm giving nothing back to you."

"Of course you're giving back to me, you're giving back every second I'm with you. I love who you make me and I love how you make me feel. That's the point ... that's what this is supposed to be about. We're both giving to the other but we're both getting, too ... I understand that, it's you who doesn't."

She could see I was going to get up to get another beer so she beat me to it ... she wanted the credit, probably.

When I took the can from her and swallowed some I looked up at her, she was lingering. "Is this going to end in sex?"

"How many times has someone told me they love me ... maybe ... probably. Of course it's going to end in sex."

When I pulled her down she landed on me like she always does, like a bird on a wire. I kissed her, she kissed me back, not like she usually does, like a molten volcano, this time her lips lingered on mine and she shifted on me to get comfortable like she planned on staying there for awhile. And she did. We kissed without passion for maybe 15 minutes then she took the beer can from my hand walked me to the bedroom, helped me with my clothes, got rid of her's then she took the bottom, not natural for her, and held me and kissed me as I slowly rode on her.

If she could smile or laugh or joke around, that would have sweetened the deal, I mean I was utterly captivated with her seduction, if that's what it was. But that's not the way it felt — most of it was, but the woman is so in charge that I always attributed multiple motivations to her.

I was having a bath the next morning thinking about nothing when she came in, sat on the toilet, peed, then promptly got in the tub with me, in front of me, lying against me. "I want to call my parents, see if they can come over for dinner tonight ... make something really nice for them."

I was fondling her breasts. "Sure."

"I want to tell my mum that I'm in love with you, OK?"

I had no idea what the implications of that might be. "What will that mean ... like to her?"

"There is nothing she could hear that would give her more joy than to hear me say that I can love someone."

"And you know that you do; you really think you know that?"

"I know you're having a hard time with this, I mean, I'm not exactly warm, I know that ..."

"Ya, but how do you know that you're in love with me, how are you different when I'm around you?" I was thinking about what her friend Susan had said and wondered if she might be right.

"My mother and father aren't like each other at all but they love each other, there's no doubt about that, it's just that they're so different, they don't make sense together and I've never made sense with anyone ... until you. I understand them now and I understand me better. For whatever reason they have always wanted to love each other and I want to love you; I actually ache to love you; I'm aching to get what my mother has."

Her words just hung there, even my fingers stopped moving on her stiffening nipples. I didn't know what to say, what could I say?

She didn't have the same problem. "This is one of those times I was talking to you about ... when you could say something ... anything ... something reassuring, but you never do, you never say anything."

I desperately wanted to get out of there after breakfast — I needed some space, I needed to be alone, not to think, just to feel what life is like without constantly rubbing shoulders. I made the mistake of telling her I wanted to check out the house more closely, see what had still to be done ... what I could do. We needed new lights, she had said, and, of course, furniture so, of course, that's what had to be done ... and she was coming.

Did she say 'we' — we needed new fixtures? I tried to remember as we were driving. I thought she did, but I wasn't sure; wasn't absolutely sure if she wanted to move into the place or not; wasn't sure about one fucking thing about her. Ya, I hadn't said anything to commit to her, but she hadn't said anything to commit to me, either. That 'I love you' business? Talk is cheap.

She had obviously put more thought into lighting than I ever had so I had to go with her ideas — when I took a stab at suggesting something for the bathroom, she looked at me like I was a complete dolt.

Does she have any idea how uncomfortable I am with the uncertainty of all of this?

After 'we' picked out the lighting I was so done with shopping I refused to look at furniture so we went to the house, one I had not actually been fully through yet. When she was showing me around my own house — and she was showing me around, she must have been here countless times telling the workers what she wanted, she pointed out all the changes: the master bedroom was much bigger now and now had its own bathroom; there was a linen closet that hadn't been there before; there were now bay windows in the living room; a giant skylight topped the entirely remodelled kitchen. In fact, everything was different, the whole fucking house had been refurbished, remodelled, reconfigured.

I was amazed that a house, any house, not just my house could change this much, this fast.

"I'm a planner. I have connections. They came in the next day, a Sunday; big team; they knew what they were doing ... I made decisions on the fly."

When I asked her how much, she said she didn't know yet but not to worry, there wouldn't be a mortgage.

But I would be indentured to her for the rest of my fucking life, with Big Frank lurking in the background making certain I've made my payments.

We went to three furniture stores where she pretended to care about my input. But I was a passenger and she finally figured that out and let me go home.

The whole day had been entirely disorienting and discombobulating. I grew sullen, I knew it and I wasn't making any effort to hide it — you can tell when I'm sullen because normally I'm cheerful, why wouldn't I be? Life has always been really good to me ... as an adult.

She was sullen too but that is her one gear: I've never seen her smiling, grinning, laughing and I've never seen her sad; I've only ever seen her in her one gear which I think of as sullen — negative, semi-annoyed, pissed off at the world. But I'm gradually coming to realize that, no, she isn't sullen, she's just serious, serious about her life and now serious about mine.

So the moment we got to her place why did I stick my hand up her shirt? It wasn't just the enticing body wrapped in that tight packaging that made me do it, although that helped. And it wasn't that I was horny, I wasn't. It was her goodness that I wanted to touch. That serious set of her jaw. Those piercing eyes that scan the future — plotting, planning, scheming, deciding. The determination of every movement of her body. The aura of her confident determination. They were all her goodness and that goodness is now selfless — because every thought she has now feels like she includes me.

She turned at my touch, checking my eyes to make sure she read my message, then turned into full slut. Erica doesn't do subtleties; she expresses herself sexually — it isn't the orgasm she's seeking but the body friction; giving to her is first getting it out: pulling it from within, then rubbing it on me. Giving is collapsing the mask, disrupting the order, extinguishing the frantic energy before the calm.

She is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, my cock is still stiff, glistening with her. She is looking down at her finger digging my cum from her vagina and she's looking at it, like she seems fascinated.

"You want a kid, don't you?"

She quickly looked at me. "Do you?"

It's too bad this daughter won't grow up to be the mother; she is warm, effusive, joyful and welcoming. I could tell that with the hug she gave me when her daughter announced that she had fallen in love, or more probably that she had decided to love ... me. The mum's hug made it feel like I was already in the family.

The old man's handshake was more cautious but it seemed to be giving me every benefit of his doubt ... for now.

I meant to give the barest outline of my life's story during dinner, more than I gave before but not much more. But mum pressed, I felt I owed an explanation. I didn't lay it on, I knew the barebones of it would be enough. I thought of my story as a 'slack-cutter:' once they heard it people would cut me every benefit of the doubt when once in awhile I screwed up. But that didn't look like it was going to work on the girl who claimed to love me: she hadn't heard any of it before but, where the mother emoted, she was her usual taciturn self, just like the old man and this pissed me off, not immediately but eventually, when the booze took hold: why wouldn't they show a tug of sympathy, it hadn't been easy.

The brain can get a little nettled when you're under a great deal of pressure ... a pressure you're trying to manage with booze. When the spotlight was off me and onto something else I kind of let my mind wander; I remembered a bunch of mental snapshots of her: shivering in the cold when we first met; in the restaurant looking restless; taking an impossibly small bite out of a burger at McDonalds; taking off white cotton panties on her bed — then the slutty stuff started a fast-forward video of images: rubbing, grinding, sucking, licking, biting — moaning, crying, screaming, then she was on the kitchen floor and I was shoving my cock into her as hard as I could.

"This isn't what you think it is," I blurted out, interrupting the mother, talking directly to Big Frank ... I wanted him to know that fucking his daughter had been her idea, not mine. "I didn't start any of this. She asked me out to dinner, that's how it started and she's been in charge the whole time."

He didn't react. "I think we know our daughter, Mike." Then he looked over at his daughter. "Coffee for the host?"

I thought she'd mention it when they left but when she didn't I thought, no, of course she wouldn't. Maybe my life's story was working for me again. Even so I knew I owed her an apology.

"What were you telling them, I really didn't get it."

"No, I didn't either."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Your dad thinks I'm fucking you ..."

"You are fucking me, you're supposed to be fucking me, you're living with their daughter."

"Ya, no ... it's just that I would never be doing it the way we're doing it."

"How's that?"

"I would have been a lot more ... gentle."

"Would have been?"

"If I was in charge."

"Ah, if you were in charge ... that's what that was about." I've said she doesn't change her moods. She did now, she lost it, the neighbours would know all about it. "If you were in charge none of this would have happened, I know that, you know that and they know that. The last thing you have to apologize to them for is fucking their daughter, they couldn't be happier that you're fucking their daughter, they couldn't be happier that their daughter is building a place with you to move into, and they are ecstatic that there is a slight, slim, maybe non-existent chance that one of the 800 billion seeds you're shooting into their daughter's body every day is going to give them a present they'll worship you for."

There were tears welling in her eyes but I wasn't going to let them get to me. "You know what you're doing, you always know what you're doing ..."

She pulled her shirt off over her head, "Ya, I'm going to bed."

"Don't you start undressing ..."

"Sleep in the other bedroom. I don't feel like sleeping with a child tonight."

I could have got up any time during the almost entirely sleepless night and got into her bed. But I didn't. And I didn't eat the eggs she put down in front of me in the morning, I just played with them.

"You don't always have all the answers," I mumbled, I knew she was waiting for something.

The black eyes flared in meanness. "I've got to have all the answers around here because you never have any of them."

I sat back finally showing my frustration. "It always gets back to me and my deficiencies, doesn't it? Have you noticed that?"

"Of course I've noticed that, they're the reasons I slept alone last night. Eat up, we're looking at furniture today."

"I have football ..."

"At 3, that's five hours from now — how much stretching do you need?"

When I got in the car she said. "Am I too aggressive ... in bed?" It was obviously a concern to her.

"No."

"Do you want me to tone it down?"

"No."

"Do you want me to ... be doing it differently?"

"No."

"Then what's the fucking problem?"

"Do you want to move into the house with me?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I want to move into the house with you."

"Do you want to get married?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to have a baby?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"In a year, but I want to start practising for it right now."

"OK, but we're going to do this my way ... don't say anything ... undo your belt and get out of the car. No touching ... maybe I can tie you up."

"No, we can do that later, I want to hold you, I want you to feel how I'm feeling."

She beat me to the door, unlocked it, waited for me to go through then passed me in the hall. I grabbed her on the way by and pulled her into me. "I love you, I don't show it very well but I love you."

Her phone was in her hand then at her ear. "Hi mum, we're getting married next Friday — just Mike and me then we want to go back to your place to be with the family. I'll be getting you a grandchild in exactly a year. I'm the happiest girl alive. Bye."

She later admitted that if she had it to do over again she would have done it like I suggested, slowly, lovingly. But she lost it. After, like about ten minutes after we got in the bed she was inspecting the cum slipping out of her.

"You're grinning."

"So."

"You never grin."

"I do so."

"You haven't grinned since I met you."

"What did I have to grin about? You were always just an impulse away from leaving."

"You're supposed to be like your dad, you never grin."

She laughed, something she never does either. "He'll be grinning now because mum would have told him."

They call themselves the 'Deliverers' because Sean is a mail carrier, Gord works for Purolator and Fred is an air traffic controller. They're all like their mother, cheerful, generous and fun. Erica, the oldest, as I've said, is like the old man, the opposite of cheerful, generous and fun. It's weird, it's as if all the genes in only one parent got implanted in each of the kids, there is nothing of the mother in Erica and nothing of the father in the boys, not just visually, behaviourally, too.

I liked the brothers from the get-go. Who wouldn't: they're the type who do their jobs well but when on their own time they want to play and fun to them is chasing something, a ball for instance or a puck. At our last football game they asked me if I played hockey. Sure I had, a lot of it, but not for a few years. Good enough: I was on their team. The first practice was Wednesday night ... football wasn't even over yet.

As crappy as my youth was, I did get to play a lot of sports and I loved it, loved the action but loved the camaraderie just as much. Sports were the only place I felt normal; teams where the only place I felt I had a family. I got out of sports when I left college because working from the bottom wrung of the ladder I couldn't find the time, then I just sort of forgot about it, thinking of it as a youthful indulgence. That first football game with the brothers taught me how much I missed sports. And so did the second when it was just such a great excuse to get time away from Erica.