The Women In My Life Ch. 01

Abigail is fifty if she's a day but she's not married and I don't think she has any kids. It's not something we've ever talked about. Our relationship has clear, well-defined boundaries - questions about kids never come up, unless it's about avoiding them. At her age, she's not interested and I'm happy to oblige her.

Abigail works in the cash office of the bookstore I work in. It's one of the larger chains and our store is a multi-level store in a shopping centre. I'm just glad we don't have to listen to the crappy music they pipe through the shopping centres that the other stores are in: this centre is independantly owned and it shows. Every year it grows bigger and - we assume - better. The store seems to be doing all right. Aside from the weirdly high turnover of store casual staff, ours is outstanding in our group. Our managers are committed to the store and the (full-time) staff in equal measure, promoting staff loyalty in turn. I've been offered work in management in other stores and declined. Aside from my more personal reasons for staying, my nest doesn't get any more feathered than here.

I live five minutes' walk away in a small house on a quarter-acre block that's been in my family for five generations. I inherited the house from my grandfather, who put me up while I was studying film theory and criticism at university. One whole room in the house is dedicated to storing an awesome collection of videotapes of movies going back fifty years; lots of smaller Australian productions that Pop was involved with as a cameraman and editor. I never discovered this, though, until I came to live with him. I moved down to live with him from interstate and didn't actually know him that well, beforehand. After five years sharing breakfast, dinner and the late show with him, before seeing him in the ground a few years ago, I'd say I knew him pretty well.

He never knew about Abigail but somehow I think he'd have been cheering me on. He was the black sheep of his generation in our family and I think he knew that mantle was going to be passed on to me. Not that there was anything to know, not really, not until New Year's Eve last year...

LUNCH ROOM

Abigail was working her way through a salad when I came into the lunch room and sat down with my home-made burritos and the latest reading copy I'd found in my pigeon hole. Management like us to get a head start on being able to intelligently discuss the new books that are coming out and they know I'll read anything that's printed. I read the chick-lit under duress but occasionally there's something good in there.

"Whatcha reading?" she asked, pausing for some water. I passed the book over for her perusal while I moved over by the microwave to nuke my burritos. "Any good?"

"It's fine so far. Slow to start but I'm sure it'll speed up soon enough." I pointed to her salad. "You lose a bet with your rabbit again?"

She made a face. "Lemming. It's a lemming. And no, I didn't lose a bet with him. I'm detoxing. You should see this soup I've made - leek, celery, onion, carrot, turnip - wonderfully cleansing."

"Sounds like vegetarian Draino," I laughed. "If you feel improved afterwards, it doesn't matter what it sounds like."

"You betcha," she said around a mouthful of dry coleslaw. The microwave pinged and I popped open the door, careful not to burn my fingers on the plate as I set it on the lunch table.

"That, on the other hand..." she drawled.

"Hey, don't rag on my Tex-Mex. I scammed some great recipes when I hit Austin last holidays and these burritos are the best. All fresh ingredients. Just don't talk to me about refrying beans..." I shuddered Homer Simpson-style and murmured, "Dishes..." Abigail laughed, then stood up to refill her water bottle. My eyes followed her as she moved over to the sink.

I heard a lot of the casuals - guys and girls - talking about the full-timers in the store. Cassandra and Helen had a lot of admirers among the first-floor staff and even Hec in the CD section had one or two hangers-on. Downstairs, on the ground floor, Anne and Marya ran a pretty tight ship as far as the books were concerned. Mothers of big families both, gossip around them was less about how much people would like to get into their pants and more speculation about the likelihood of cobwebs. Management - Virgil, Sophia and Tony - were always friendly with staff but kept business hours for business. A lot of the casuals simply thought them distant and had no idea how little of their conversations - and other goings-on - were well-known among both management and full-time staff.

Certainly Kelly and Katie were warned not to bring their personal issues into work with them and were told to be discreet: none of the casuals (but all of the full-timers) knew they'd been caught on security tape going down on each other on the lounges in the children's' section after hours. Ryan had been fired for his little infringement and all the casuals heard was a repeat of smoking and drinking policy for the chain. (He ended up with a fine and a suspended sentence.)

I was typically an object of pity for the casuals: the guy who started as a casual and never left, the odd-job guy, everywhere and nowhere. Abigail was an object of indifference: they barely noticed her when they picked up their pay slips - not that she cared, either. Abigail has her own business and working in the cash office is more a permanent part-time thing. She's into alternative therapies and such - she volunteered to help people during the Black Saturday fires - and she's utterly down to earth. I thought she was the bomb. Still do.

She wore a denim skirt to mid-thigh, a white singlet top with a sports bra underneath, fawn bolero vest and oxblood knee-high zip-up boots. She's only five-foot-two and curvy to boot, with short-cropped hair in a continuous state of flux between her naturally dark blonde hair, the increasing amount of grey she found in it, and the ash blonde she chose to dye her hair. Spiky with gel or mousse (depending on the latest treatment), Abigail always looks, if not a million bucks, then at least several hundred thousand.

"Are you eyeballing me again?" she queried, not turning around but the raised eyebrow obvious in her tone.

"Of course," I grinned. "You know how my tastes run, Abigail."

She took a swig from her water bottle and sat back down at the table, slapping me as she passed. "That's harassment."

"I thought it was assault and battery when you slap someone." I poked out my tongue. "I just think you look great. You always look great."

"Awww, thanks boyo. You're always such a sweetie." She put the lid back on her Tupperware container and stepped over to the fridge, pushing the plastic bowl past bottles of Diet Coke to the back of the bottom shelf. "Some of us have to get back to work..."

I took a large bite from a burrito and mumbled around it, "And some of us don't just yet..." Abigail laughed and pointed at my plate, where the bottom half of what was in my hands was forming a protein-based pile of debris. "And you are such a grub."

The next half-hour passed in virtual silence, aside from my sotto voce curses as I searched for a spoon to scoop up the mince and beans from my plate. I ended up doing the dishes and drying one while the rest drained on the counter. Abigail came in with her mug and a tea bag.

"So what are you doing for Christmas, Sam?" she asked. "Are you going up north to see the family?" She ran water from the zip-boiler into her mug.

"Nope," I shrugged. "I'm a black sheep this year. Virgil wants me here anyway and the trip to Texas... well, I'm happy to pay in some goodwill, you know?" Abigail made as if to comment but I cut her off: "I know, I know, I earned the holidays. It's just the way I work."

"Don't let them take you for granted," she warned.

"Thanks, Mum."

Abigail's face turned to shock and she raised one hand to slap me again. "Not while I'm holding a hot cuppa in my hand, Sam! Someone'll get hurt!"

I made a face. "Only kidding. So anyway, I'm home alone. I'm going to do a slow lamb roast and have lamb and potatoes and minty mushy peas all the way to New Year's."

Abigail groaned as she dunked her teabag. "I can hear your arteries clanging shut already."

"What are you doing then?" I queried.

"Ohhh, I'm just going to relaaax..." she purred. "I've got a new split system air conditioner installed and if it's going to be as hot as they say" - (it was actually hotter!) - "I'll be as cool as the proverbial." She blew delicately on her mug of tea as she drew the bag up and leaned towards the bin. "New Year's, on the other hand," she continued, dropping the bag, "is going to be in the city. I've been invited - well, I'm always invited, they've given me a key! - but I've been invited to enjoy high-rise apartment views of the fireworks. How about you?"

I grinned and picked up my plate, heading to the sink. As I rinsed it off I said, "Two words - Rocky Horror. The Astor shows it every year and I'm there every year. Afterwards, I don't know. Probably back home again. I don't have aircon but I do have a fan..."

I left the plate in the sink as we both turned to leave. "You're not going to wash that?" Abigail asked.

I pointed to the drainer. "I think I've done my good deed for the day," I said. "Anyway, chances are when the drainer's empty and the sink is full, that's when I'll be wanting a spoon again."

SILLY SEASON

Christmas was upon us before we knew it. Work was pretty much flat chat but with Christmas falling on the Thursday it did mean that for the Monday-to-Friday full-timers were able to enjoy a rather long weekend. I'd ordered my lamb, had a fridge full of food all ready to be cooked, and a steady stream of frozen meals I'd taken to cooking on the weekend were flowing into the lunch room. Daily sleep-ins were de rigeur and it was a rare day that I was out of bed before eight o'clock.

As a dedicated self-abuser from a young age, I frequently hit the snooze button on my alarm clock to enjoy the benefits my morning glory. I found after many years of this that my dick had began to point to the right and in the spirit of scientific exploration, I switched wanking hands. Men would masturbate all day, every day, if they could work out a way to do it profitably and without injury. Being a man, I'd settled on three or four times a week and this morning I decided to break routine. It was Christmas Eve, it would be a big day at work: I was entitled.

I lay back in bed, stretched my arms up over my head and growled. It felt good to stretch but too much and I'd likely end up cramping my leg - not the first time it would have happened. I folded down the quilt and top-sheet and lay spreadeagled on the bed. The air was warm and still, so I reached up and switched on the little fan that stood on my bedhead. Air began to flow over my skin, feeling a little cooler than no breeze at all. The room was dim with the blinds closed and I felt tempted to simply snooze after all.

I idly scratched my belly and then ran my hand down to my balls, cupping and rolling them gently as I let my mind wander. I tickled the skin between my ballsack and my arsehole and clenched my buttocks as the sensation made my dick begin to throb. I wondered to myself how messy I felt like getting and decided, not too messy. Maybe a little...

I rolled to one side and pulled open the top drawer in my bedside table. I ignored the two boxes and dipped my fingers into the plastic bag and withdraw one of its contents. A small lunch bag, like we used to use for sandwiches at school, with the turnover-style closure. I rolled onto my back again and left the bag beside me on the sheet. As I considered how this little session would end I smiled and felt my heart begin to pick up a beat or two.

WALKING HOME

In winter it doesn't have to be late to be dark but in this case it was. I was on my way home from the movies and decided to take the long way home, taking the main roads instead of ducking through back streets. There were a few people out and about, mostly ducking from restaurants trying to close into cars parked nearby. Past a trio of restaurants I saw the gaudy sign for a strip club with a large man in a suit standing by the door. A few metres further down were a couple of women falling over each other a little the worse for drink and as I drew nearer they appeared to be familiar.

Voula and Mariana own a cafe I used to all the time when I was still studying. I visit on the weekends now, since it's still a great place to sit and read, or write and daydream and watch the world (or at least the local suburbs) pass by.

Mariana immigrated from Brazil when she married a musician who'd been touring with a low-billing world music outfit. They were together long enough for her to gain citizenship but not quite long enough for him to realise what a great partner he had. She was home, studying homeopathy at a college in the CBD and three months pregnant when she discovered he'd been having an affair. I'm told her divorce lawyer was almost vindictive and Mariana did very well out of the proceedings. The stress took its toll, however, she miscarried the baby and ended up having a hysterectomy. He fled the country, hoping to re-establish himself on tour but died in a bus crash - in Sao Paolo as it happened, exactly where they'd met years earlier.

Voula's husband was in construction and died in an workplace accident. He wasn't able to have children after an injury as a child but it made no difference to Voula: she married Odysseos, the man of her dreams, built the house of her dreams and threw open the doors to all her friends and relatives. Her sister Christina's family was usually there every other week, two sets of twins, a bear of a husband and a bear of a dog.

Voula met Mariana in the offices of the same lawyer she Voula was suing for compensation in her husband's death. They bonded over their tragedies and became fast friends. Their cafe, "Brazilian or Greek", became a novelty for both name and menu, where the double entendres continued through most of the meal names. Their bawdy senses of humour and their big-hearted warmth made it a great place to be and on more than one occasion I had worked shifts for them when staff had been sick.

In the almost strobing light of the strip club, Voula and Mariana looked amazing - despite their disastrously inebriated manner. Drunks don't do a lot for me but knowing these two put paid to that and I didn't feel at all like I was taking advantage when I stopped behind them and whistled.

"Evening ladies," I grinned.

Mariana took a moment to recognise me but Voula threw her arms around my neck and planted a slobbering kiss on my mouth. "'Ullo sweet-cheeks!" she drawled.

"Oh Sam!" exclaimed Mariana, finally recognising me. "What are you doing here?"

I laughed. "I might ask you two the same question! Were you on stage or off?"

Voula put a hand over her mouth in mock alarm. "What are you saying, Sam?"

"I saw you come out of the club, V. You two..." I shook my head. "Good thing it's me who spotted you. If it was Darryl you'd be in some serious bother..."

Voula and Mariana screamed with laughter and clutched at each other. "Oh, Sam," said Mariana, "you're such a good guy. We always feel safe with you!"

I bowed and replied, "That's the plan. Once I've got the keys I'll be able to tie you both up and have my wicked way with you!" Voula slapped my shoulder.

"You wish. You wouldn't know what to do with us."

"Maybe just one then - maybe the other would like to help..." I raised one eyebrow to their incredulous faces, then threw an arm over the shoulders of each woman and we started moving down the street.

"Now I'm sure you ladies didn't drive here, am I right?" I asked. They shook their heads, then started squealing with laughter again. "Oh for fuck's sake..." I shook my head. "So who's crashing where, then?" We were passing a park, swings and bubblers and seats for Tarago mums to watch their spawn playing during the daylight hours. "Vee, you're probably closest, yes?"

She shook her head. "Chrissie's there with the kids." She stopped short and turned and put her right hand flat on my chest. "You're nearby! We could crash there - "

"Yesyesyesyesyesyes, Samsamsam," mumbled Mariana. She tried to stand up on her toes to kiss my cheek but got my shoulder sleeve instead.

"Nononononono, Em," I said. "I want to be able to have coffee at your shop without feeling like you're wondering what I did while you're asleep. If I'm going to take advantage of you two I'd rather you be sober."

They looked at each other and then almost smothered me in a hug. "Awww, Sammmmm," they crooned.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm such a good guy." I extricated myself and held out my hands. "Mariana, you're only about what, half an hour's walk? We'll be home by two," I stated, looking at my watch. "You have water bottles?" They nodded in unison. "Give," I ordered, holding out my hands. After much fumbling, I took the Mount Franklin bottles to a bubbler and filled them up.

"You two aren't going to get far without a drink. Sit down here and have a chug." They sat next to me on a bench and, to her credit, Mariana drank the whole bottle with hardly a blink of an eye. Voula took a while longer but when she was finished I refilled their bottles and we started on our way.

Though it was cold there was no wind and the exertion of walking warmed all three of us up considerably. I took off my jacket and carried it and soon Mariana and Voula followed suit. Mariana shucked her knee-length black Burberry to reveal a gunmetal silk minidress with a halter neck and black calf boots. Her naturally tan skin gleamed gold and her hair glossy black in the streetlamp light. Voula's fur coat only reached to mid-thigh and the cold night air on her black stockinged legs had already encouraged her to set a swifter pace for the three of us. Now that she was warmer, she too carried her coat revealing a black baby-doll dress with a red lace collar and cinched under her breasts with a wide red leather belt.

"Are you sure you girls weren't on stage?" I joked. Voula punched my shoulder.

"Blame this one," she said, pointing at Mariana. "Me?" Mariana protested.

"Yes, you. We're sitting watching television, finishing off the moussaka I brought and opening the next bottle of wine - "

"Third," corrected Mariana.

"Third," amended Voula, "and this one says, 'Oh, I feel like going out.' I say, 'Em, babe, it's cold out there and it's ten o'clock...' and she says, 'Oh let's go to that strip club! It'll be nice and warm there. I want a lap dance!'" Mariana chuckled and I looked at her.

"Well, I did get one..." she smiled.

"Oi," interrupted Voula. "My story. So we're not driving, obviously, so i called a cab and four hours later, there you go."

"Oh, you liked it," crooned Mariana, moving up against her friend and shimmying her body against her, then moving in for a kiss. Voula returned the kiss passionately and I stood for a while waiting while Voula and Mariana let the moment take its course.

"Done?" I asked. Voula looked at me from under heavy-lidded eyes. "Jealous?" she asked. I held up finger and thumb. "Just a little bit." Mariana walked on, tugging down the hem of her dress while trying not to drop her coat.

"Hmmm," she murmured, then quickened her pace to catch up with her friend.

"Hmmm," I said to myself and likewise hurried to catch up. We passed another park where we stopped to refill water bottles. Not long afterwards, about ten minutes, we arrived at Mariana's house.

The house is old, weatherboard, and has certainly seen better days. Mariana is in a never-ending process of working on it and there have been numerous working bees and middle-of-the-night callouts to help with some thing or other. I like it and have never thought it needed changing but I've never had to live with the memories Mariana does. The centres of the front bedroom and the lounge room were both piled with clutter while the rooms were being painted.