Summer's Warmth: A Winter Reunion

I pause the DVD and answer the call. "Hello?"

"Leon?"

No shit. Who else would it be?

"Yes sir?"

"Got a special assignment for you. You up to the task?"

No. No, I am not. I have one story to write for the Sunday Edition and that's it. Sorry, it's very cold and I'm tired. Fuck you very much.

"Sure. No problem."

"We got us an author dropping into town," Randy says. "Dirk Frierson. You heard of him?"

"Can't say that I have, sir."

"Well, he's gonna be doing a little book signing, presentation thing at the library tomorrow night. I'll e-mail you the flyer. That workable for you?"

No.

"I'm on it."

"Oh, and in the meantime..."

"Right, the snow story. It's already halfway done."

"I'm sure."

"Later, sir."

"Goodbye, Leon."

Son of a bitch!

****

My evening drags on in perpetual loneliness. The surprise Saturday assignment won''t be too tough, but its randomness has killed my sex drive. Forbidden Sorority Initiations 3 has been returned to its container as I help myself to 22 minutes of ridiculous Sicily stories and four grannies insulting each other.

Daylight Savings has brought on early darkness. Outside, the snow falls in flurries. Since cold and shitty weather affects my energy level, I'm drained.

A knock on my door jumps me awake. I squint, wondering who could be visiting me this late.

I stumble to the door on tired legs. There's another knock.

"I'm coming," I grumble. "Just..."

I open the door, revealing Jen.

Snow clings to her brown hair and winter armor. Behind her, the wind howls like an injured animal.

"May I come in?" Jen asks.

I step aside. "Sure."

She removes her mittens. "Sorry. I know I usually call, but something told me to drop by."

I close the door. "Where's Kara?"

"Found her a babysitter," Jen smiles.

"Not Cammi," I state rhetorically.

"Yes, Cammi. What's your problem with her, anyway?"

"Just her job performance."

Jen shrugs. "Everything's always fine when I get home. Kara's been bathed, fed, and put to sleep."

"Bathed, fed and put to sleep fast so Cammi can bring over a 'friend,'" I rebuttal.

"Never caught any 'friends' leaving whenever I got there," Jen argues back.

"Because it's Cammi," I say. "She's like clockwork. Assembly line."

Jen chuckles. "Like you'd complain if she invited you over."

She stops my counterargument with a kiss.

Pregnancy was kind to Jen. Her figure quickly returned, and she doesn't look any different than our first meeting. If I were to picture this Jen walking into that laundry room, it would be the same image. She's still two inches taller than me. Her fresh and youthful has that little freckle northwest of her nose. Her hair is shorter, stopping at her shoulders instead of flowing down her back.

We divorced because we got tired of each other. Sharing the same space worsened until we could no longer stand it. We had to split for Kara's sake; we didn't want her growing up in a house where mommy and daddy were always harboring ways to kill each other.

But whenever Jen kisses me this way, slow and patient, drawing out the moment, I suffer a memory lapse. I forget about the fights and the tension; I wonder why we ended our marriage.

She takes my hand and we walk. I remember the bridal suite in Mexico City on our wedding night, and the bride herself, then eight months pregnant.

Jen strips her shirt off. I get rid of my pants. She removes hers. My own shirt goes. Her bra falls along with it. We used to do this as a game Jen called "Hurry N Go." We're both nude when we reach the shower.

Jen's tits are large and milky white. Her aureole are light pink color variations that take up under half of each mound. Her actual nipples are tiny, no bigger than ant bites. She's always shaved her pussy, and what's always struck me is how small her twat is in height and width. The hospital staff must have thought along the same lines, as Jen's C-section scar can attest. She has the scar covered with a tattoo, a phoenix with red, fiery wings that makes the affliction difficult to spot.

She tests the water and steps under it. I follow suit. There's not much room in the tub/shower ensemble, but we won't be in here long.

Jen presses a palm into my chest, guiding me to the far shower fall. It's ice cold against my back. She kneels and then spits on my hard cock, spits on her hand, and takes me into a warm, inviting mouth. She's had plenty of oral experience, with me and others. She knows her way around a cock, mine especially. She's fine-tuned to my rhythm and makes expert use of her tongue, dividing attention between my glans, shaft, corona, and balls. Jen is also good enough to almost deep throat, but never mastered it.

She sucks a while, using her tongue whenever my cock is in her mouth. She pops it out, strokes it, and licks around the shaft before repeating the process. And she does the one thing that always drives me wild whenever I get head: she stares up at me. It's hard to resist blowing it with that doe look of hers, especially when she's flicking my opening with her tongue. Her eyes are naturally shaped into slits, and it doesn't take any effort to make her face arousing.

I hear slurping and sucking under the stream's fall. I cradle her wet head. Testosterone spills into my bloodstream. My balls tighten. An orgasm looms.

"Jen..." I moan.

She plops my dick out of her mouth. "Oop!" The finger in her cheek tells me shes tastes pre-cum. Jen isn't averse to swallowing, but the blowjob is only the warmup.

I stride to my bed. Behind me, the shower shuts off. It doesn't take long for a naked Jen to appear.

Anticipation is another part of the game. By the time she's strolled over to the bed, pushing out those big tits, stopping to dip a finger in her pussy and taste herself, my dick is throbbing. I've never had a problem with cumming too early, but in this routine we always avoid that pratfall by prolonging penetration.

Jen straddles either side of my face. In addition to her tits, she's been blessed with a clit that's so vulnerable, she prefers I tease, kiss and suck the rest of her twat before attacking her bud. Otherwise, flicking her clit throws off her orgasm. Once I've kissed and licked every inch of her pussy and run in every direction through her inner folds, all it takes is a few seconds on her clit to make her cum.

Sticky juices coat my face in the aftermath of Jen's orgasm. Her scent intoxicates me, driving me wild. She savors her climax, doing smaller grinds and juts to stretch it out.

She slides away. My cock is at full-mast, veiny, threatening to explode without any input.

Jen reaches over, giving me a side glimpse of her curvy ass as she fumbles through my nightstand. She pulls out a condom. I never have special visitors, so I buy protection primarily for her. She's on the pill, but in our current situation we'd rather avoid another pregnancy.

Another thing Jen has perfected is the art of applying condoms with her mouth. Watching Jen do this is as stimulating as her blowjobs. She puckers the unwrapped condom in her lips and lowers herself onto my shaft, lingering a moment before ascending. Then she pinches the reservoir tip and straddles my cock.

Pleasure surges through me as I'm enveloped by Jen's pussy. She slowly sinks onto all my six inches, then bucks and grinds. Although I'm average-sized, that miniscule twat makes me feel like I'm defying physics.

Jen cums again. It's not uncommon for her to get off four or five times when we fuck. That's a perk of being a woman. After I've blown my load I have at least a 20 minute recovery time. Not Jen. Jen grinds wildly as I push up my pelvis to meet her movements. She moans and curses and cums and cums some more. Her gaze fills with a deep, longing need and she throws her head back. Her tits fly up and down with every movement.

My stamina holds steady, but my control wanes. To counter that, my mind wanders. Abstract thoughts keep me occupied while Jen and I continue grinding and thrusting as one. Soon a familiar build begins.

Jen is covered in sweat, and despite her animalistic desires, is slowing down.

I let loose, struck by an orgasmic lightning bolt. I grimace and groan. As pleasure continues its rampage, my cum meets the latex barrier with several thumps.

Jen slows to a stop but doesn't dismount until the condom is full. We cuddle under my ceiling light. I leave the condom on, letting my cock soften inside of it.

I mentioned my mind wandering. It always drifts to the same place when I'm with Jen, serving as a good safeguard against cumming but disturbing me all the same. When our frantic rutting fills the air with screams, moans and pussy scent, there's always a moment or two where I'm in love with her again, where I wonder if we could start over anew, try dating again, maybe remarry. I return to those blissful days when we were dating and those precious, happy few months of marriage before all went sour.

The sex brings those memories and possibilities into my head, but after I've cum my rationality recalls that hellish living situation.

We cuddle a few minutes more, and then Jen gets up. She stretches, emphasizing her naked, spent body with its flushed face, neckline and tits.

"I guess I need to go home now," she says.

"Maybe you'll catch Cammi in the act," I woozily respond.

"Will you be okay?" Jen asks.

She always asks me this before she leaves. It baffles me, frankly. I always have the same answer.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

She gives me a quick kiss and then leaves my room. A few moments pass as she gathers up her clothes, and then the front door opens and closes.

I lie back in bed, exhausted and ready to call it a night.

The nagging thoughts rush back.

What if there's a chance?

No, Leon. No. It's just sex. Sex scrambles the mind.

I'm still dwelling on this tangled problem when I fall asleep.

****

I'm on the littered street again. It's the same setting as before with one key difference: instead of that strange transition into snowy blacktop, the storefronts form a cul-de-sac.

"Hey."

A female voice nearly throws me out of my shoes.

The street's opposite direction ends at a large courtyard that's walled by old European architecture. There's a big square block in the courtyard's center. Sitting atop it is a young woman. When I walk closer, she hops off the block and meets me halfway.

The girl's appearance throws me. She's in her early 20's at most. Her brown eyes, brown hair and girlish face make her look almost—no, exactly like Ellen Page.

"Who are you?" I ask.

The girl shrugs. "I have lots of names."

"Can I call you Ellen or Juno?" I'm half-joking.

"Not if you want to keep living, Leon," the girl scowls.

"Y-you know my name?"

"Is it that surprising? You've been here twice, Leon. People don't get to wander through here without my permission."

The girl climbs back onto the large block.

"And where's here?" I ask.

"You're pretty good with observation," she replies. "Look around and I'll give you a guess."

I do. The first thing I notice is that her 'block' is a huge clock. Its face is of antique craftsmanship with roman numerals. I peer up at not-Ellen Page.

"How many guesses do I get?"

"Oh, just out with it," she snaps.

"Alright, I'm guessing this is some point outside reality and you're some kind of time guardian goddess something-or-other."

"Well, you're half-right," she says more politely. She drops and steps backwards to view the clock face. "I'm more of a guardian goddess something against time paradoxes. You can call me Para."

"Nice to meet you, Para...doxes, huh?"

"Yep," she acknowledges. "Leon, you understand the implications of a time paradox, right?"

I shrug. "Depends on the source."

"Okay, well, let's go with the Doctor Emmett Brown school of paradoxes. As in the universe being destroyed if the space-time continuum gets confused?"

"And your job is to prevent them."

Para chuckles. "My job, is to sit on my ass until there's a problem."

I raise an eyebrow. "And I take it there's a problem now?"

"There could be," Para replies.

"What does that have to do with me?" I want to know.

Para is quiet a moment.

"She's coming back."

"Who?"

Para rolls her eyes. "Come on. You know who, Leon."

The revelation slugs my chest.

"Summer."

I follow Para as she walks toward the street. "But wait, how does that cause a paradox? There has to be time-travel or parallel universes collapsing for that to happen, right?"

"I didn't say it would Leon," Para responds. "First I have to figure out if it will or won't."

"That doesn't answer my question, though."

"Well maybe I don't feel like answering it!" she retorts with such fire that I lose a step.

Para holds up her hands. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I-it's just this has never happened and now it's crunch time for me. You spend, untold millenniums sitting on your stupid clock and all of a sudden the bell rings and it's not a drill."

I don't know whether to pity her or keep asking questions. I go for a mild one.

"You said Summer's coming back. When?"

Para looks toward the sky. "By my estimation? Three days, starting now. Expect to see the countdown and understand what it means."

"Why three days?" I ask. "Why not now?"

Para shakes her head. "It's not that simple. As for me, I'm glad it's three whole days. I need to plan."

She turns toward me. "But right now? You need to wake up."

02:15:49:09 [2 days, 15 hours, 49 minutes, 9 seconds]

I'm not used to lucid dreams. Normally I'd describe them as a blend of faces and noises that leave my memory the second I'm awake.

But in this case I remember everything: not-Ellen Page, the giant clock, and the talk of paradoxes. Para—that's what not-Juno called herself—mentioned Summer, and that Summer was coming back.

Normally I'd wave it off as a twisted mental concoction, except I've dreamt of that same place already. "You've been here twice," Para said.

Two dreams about the same weird world. Clarification that I've 'visited' twice. Something's off.

I look at the white apocalypse outside my bedroom window. It reminds of that morning when I woke up and Summer was gone.

02:14:30:07

I do a Google and Amazon search for Dirk Frierson. He's 42, a decade-and-a-half my senior, and started his career as a writer of illustrated children's books. After his forth work he suddenly switched to the supernatural, a subject that now dominates his bibliography. Amazon's official reviews laud him as "the Ghostspert." Not a Ghostspert but the Ghostspert. He'll get a nice crowd in Archton.

I phone his publicist and set up an interview an hour before Dirk's presentation, which gives me enough room for several good quotes. I'll have to stick around for the show in order to pad out the rest. The Report will probably send Lewis to get snapshots.

02:05:00:13

Dirk arrives right on time. We find an empty round table near the back. He's a lot older looking than 42. There are patches of light blond but the rest of his head is gray. He's working on a widow's peak. He has wrinkles that mostly show when he smiles.

I have my old tape recorder and my notepad on me. "You don't mind if I record us, do you?"

"Not at all!" he beams. "Long as you don't play it back right now. I hate the sound of my voice."

I smile, look at my list of prepared questions and begin. It starts with the usual preliminaries: what's your name? What do you do? Where were you educated? What got you into writing? When did you get started? What's your book about? 'Is publishing a book difficult?' After this I can ask more in-depth questions.

"So you wrote children's books for a while and you were very successful. Why the change?"

"Oh, what lies beyond's always fascinated me for one," he answers. "For another I felt it was time for a change."

"Have you ever seen an actual ghost?"

"I have, actually."

That intrigues me. "Really? When?"

"Twelve years ago," he plainly recalls.

"Twelve...? But you've been writing ghost books for..." I check my notes. "...four years. This happened eight years before that?"

"Damndest thing I've ever seen," he replies.

"Sir, this is good stuff," I say honestly. "If you don't mind, could you explain it further?"

"I was a single man," he recalls, "living on my own. Saw her on my way back from a get-together."

"Her?"

"Yep. Young woman. Early to mid-20's maybe."

"What happened?"

"I watched her walk down the street. She turned, smiled and me, and vanished in front of me. I hadn't turned away. She was a pretty thing. Striking pretty thing."

"Wow. Have there been any other encounters like that?"

Something comes over him. Distress? A sore spot?

"No, but...I've heard plenty from others, enough to fill up four..."

Then he drops whatever else he's about to say. I get an inexplicable chill.

"Alright Mr. Rollins, you're a nice fellow," he says. "I'm gonna tell you a secret. But if you would, could you stop the recorder?"

I comply by hitting pause. "It's stopped."

"My first supernatural book was called Moon Nymphs. That's what I called her. Call them. Y'see, I didn't just watch that girl vanish. She walked up to me. I took her home. I, hope you don't mind my frankness but I was a virgin. No other woman since was quite like her. Not a one. Not even my wife. We were together all night, she and I...but when I woke up the next day, she was gone. Not a note left, nothing."

The chill becomes a full-on freeze. My eyes widen. My fingers twitch.

"It hadn't been a dream," Dirk continues. "There was clear evidence she'd been there. At first I thought it was a typical one-nighter. We'll have a good time, but don't call me in the morning, that sort of thing. But no one in town had ever seen her before. No one saw me talking to her or picking her up. It was a small town, small enough that everybody knew everybody. Anyway, when I started on ghosts I heard lots of stories from men and women who claimed people laid down with them in the night and then disappeared. And there was always one telling detail."

"What...telling detail would that be?"

"They'd appear with unusual weather. Heavy rain, sandstorms, snow."

"Snow," I whisper.

He goes on. "That night I met this girl it was raining like God's punishment. It was because of her that I wrote Moon Nymphs. Of course I left my own account out of it. It's too personal."

I gulp. Might as well.

"Sir...something like that..."

The timer on my cellphone goes off.

"Oh. It's time for your presentation." I unpause the recorder.

"I-is there...anything else you'd like to say?"

The somber reflection leaves him and he grins. "Just that it's a pleasure to be here in your town, and I hope people enjoy the new book as much as I did writing it."

02:03:57:13

After the presentation I head to my car. Dirk Frierson's story has shaken me to my very center and I need to think.

Outside, small flurries are drifting again.

"Wait!" Dirk runs up to me. Want to grab a drink or two?"

"I wish, but I can't," I decline. "I've got business at home."

"Oh." Dirk reaches in his pocket. "Well, I'll give this to you here, then."

He hands me a small round object, a little bigger than a fifty cent piece. It's colored gold and bronze and there are strange carvings on it.

"What's this, sir?" I ask, turning it in my fingers.

"I picked it up from a fellow during one of my travels," Dirk explains. "Never could figure out what it was even with all my research. But I want you to have it, as a token of my appreciation and our friendship."