YYZ

This story has been posted to Literotica.Com with the full knowledge of the original author, JimBob44. No part or whole of this story may be reprinted in any other format or on any other web site without the express written consent of the original author.

Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

*

Quickly, the title 'YYZ' has no relation to this story; it is simply a nod of appreciation to a good friend and fellow contributor on this site. He and I are huge fans of the Finnish Death Metal diva Kylie Minogue. YYZ is the opening track of her brilliant a cappella album 'Hymns We Love.' The letters 'YYZ' are the call letters designated to Argentina's busiest train station terminal, the Buenos Aires station.

=-=-=

He had the flu, a stomach bug and slept in the spare bedroom, not wanting to give either his wife or their daughter the bug. On the second day, Patrick Burke realized, Stacy, their daughter had come in and checked on him; she'd come in before leaving for school, then when she returned from school, then when she'd woken up that morning.

Twyla Burke had screeched in horror when Patrick had informed her that he thought he was coming down with the same bug everyone else was suffering with. Twyla had demanded he leave the room at once and go to the spare room. And, Twyla had not poked her head into the room once since he'd entered the room.

The half-bath attached to the spare room needed more toilet paper and he needed more Ibuprofen and something to drink. The thought of food made his stomach twist and knot up, but he knew he needed something to replace all the fluids he'd expelled over the last thirty six hours.

"God damn, this mattress is miserable," Patrick realized as he fought to right himself in the bed.

"Honey?" he weakly called out.

He knew she was home; he could hear her laughing and squealing on her cell phone. Twyla marched around as she talked, often traversing the entire four bedroom home several times in a single conversation.

"Honey!" he barked when she passed the closed bedroom door. "Twyla!"

He knew she'd heard him; she paused for a moment. Then the muffled, mumbled conversation with whomever she was talking with continued and she marched away.

"Woman, I know you heard me," Patrick grumbled.

He found his cell phone and sent Twyla a text message. 'Need toilet paper, Ibuprofen and Gatorade.'

Several moments later, he sent a follow-up text. She was off the cell phone; the television in the living room was on.

"Honey, I sent you two text messages," Patrick snapped, staggering into the living room. "You can't tell me you didn't see them."

"You, are you still contagious?" Twyla screeched, throwing her arms up as if to ward off any germs he might have.

"I'm sure I am," Patrick said. "I'm still running fever and I'm shitting my brains out. I sent you two text messages; I need..."

"Well get away from me; last thing I need is to get sick," Twyla shrieked.

"And it was the first thing I needed?" Patrick snapped. "Now. I need toilet paper, I need Ibuprofen, and please get me some Gatorade; I like the fruit punch flavor."

"Okay; just, just get away from me," Twyla said, waving at him, trying to get him to leave the living room.

Three hours later, Patrick staggered to their master bathroom and fetched three rolls of toilet paper from underneath their vanity. While he was there, he took two Ibuprofen with some tap water. Then he staggered back to the spare room.

Stacy came home from visiting her best friend; Patrick woke up feeling weak and disoriented when he heard his daughter calling out for her mother. Checking the cell phone, Patrick saw that it was after five in the afternoon.

"Daddy? You, how you feeling?" Stacy quietly asked, sticking her head in the doorway.

"Absolutely terrible," Patrick said, trying to force a smile to his face. "So, I guess I'm feeling better. How you doing, Stace-face?"

"You know where Momma is?" Stacy asked.

"No. Last time I saw her, God, it's been, wow, saw her about nine thirty, ten o'clock," Patrick said.

"Oh," Stacy said.

At five thirty, Patrick tried to call Twyla. The call rang a few times, then went to voice mail. A follow-up text message was ignored. Stacey tried at six thirty and the call went immediately to voice mail. At twelve minutes after eight o'clock, Twyla came in and yelled at Stacy for making a mess when the nine year old child had made herself something to eat.

"Did you see the mess your daughter made?" Twyla demanded, waking a dozing Patrick.

"Did you get me some Gatorade?" Patrick asked.

"She got cheese on the burners; you know how hard that will be to get off," Twyla continued.

"Where the hell were you? God damn, I asked you for some Ibuprofen and some Gatorade at ten o'clock this morning," Patrick said.

Twyla closed the door of the room and a moment later, Patrick heard her screaming at their daughter again. In the small bathroom, he drank tap water before another cramp seized him. Thankfully, with the bathroom door closed, he could not hear Twyla's haranguing their daughter.

Monday morning, after a miserable, sweaty weekend, Patrick felt well enough to stagger out of the bedroom. He made himself a breakfast of scrambled eggs and some toast. He drank some orange juice and then wobbled to his bedroom.

"You better not be contagious," was Twyla's greeting.

"Yes, yes, I do feel better; thanks for asking. No, no, don't bother making me anything. I just had some eggs; you know, solid food? Was just what the doctor ordered," Patrick said, selecting some underwear and socks.

He shaved, wincing as his razor struggled to hack through a four day growth of whiskers. A hot shower, needle sharp spray pelting him did make him feel a hundred percent better. He fished out the last two Ibuprofen and washed it down with a mouthful of Listerine. Then he dressed for another day's work in the Accounting Department of the Oakleaf Public Utilities. Twyla and Stacy were in the kitchen, Stacy sullenly chewing her way through oatmeal, complaining about eating oatmeal while Twyla ignored the girl.

"Make you grow big and strong like Batman," Patrick teased, playfully mussing the girl's honey blonde hair.

"Daddy, like I want to grow big and strong like Batman?" Stacy huffed.

"Poison Ivy?" Patrick suggested, grabbing his briefcase. "Cat Woman?"

"Whatever," Stacy rolled her eyes.

After an uneventful day of work, Patrick stopped at the local Wal-Mart and purchased a case of assorted bottles of Gatorade. He picked up a pack of Northern toilet paper and two large bottles of the generic brand of Ibuprofen. Swerving through the bedding department, Patrick found a plush mattress topper and thrust the rolled up bedding into his grocery cart.

"Now, what did you buy that for?" Twyla complained as Patrick put his Gatorade into the pantry.

"What did I ask you to buy for me Saturday?" Patrick asked.

"I don't know. What?" Twyla asked.

"Take a wild guess," Patrick said, holding up one bottle of the sports drink.

When Stacy came to the dinner table, Patrick showed the girl the five single serving tubs of beef and mac & Cheese he'd bought for her. Together, he and Stacy went over the microwave directions. Twyla ignored them; something on her phone had her attention.

"See? That way, if Mom's too busy and I'm lying in bed all dying and stuff?" Patrick said, giving his daughter a kiss to the top of her head.

"Don't make a mess in that oven; know how hard it is to clean that thing?" Twyla snapped when Stacy admitted she was looking forward to being able to make her own meal.

"And the award for 'Mother of the year goes to...'" Patrick muttered to himself as he left the kitchen.

Patrick stripped the spare bedroom's bed of the slightly musty sheets and mattress pad. The pillows were not machine washable so Patrick lay them on the outdoor furniture in their back yard.

That night, when he came to bed Twyla looked at him. The displeasure was evident as he slid under the covers.

"I, you, you're sleeping in here?" she asked.

"It's my bed. I've been sleeping in this bed since we got married," Patrick said. "Why wouldn't I sleep in this bed?"

"Oh. Well, I just thought, you know, you'd just keep sleeping in..." Twyla said.

"Sorry if it inconveniences you, but I plan to sleep in my bed," Patrick said, rolling away from her.

He did not hear her response; she immediately clicked the television on. The volume was extremely loud; Patrick often wondered if Twyla might have a slight hearing loss.

"Jesus Christ, Twyla, turn it down," Patrick snarled a moment later.

"Well if you don't like it..." Twyla started to say.

Patrick jerked the remote control from her hand, turned the television off, and then put the remote control into the front of his underwear. His hard eyes dared her to try to reach for the remote control.

=-=-=

There was no special breakfast waiting for Patrick, even though Twyla had risen thirty minutes before he leisurely rose then showered and shaved. There was Stacy's bowl of oatmeal, pecans stirred in.

"Mom! Augh, oatmeal? OATMEAL?" Stacy shrilled.

"Make you big and strong like..." Patrick teased.

"No, Daddy, whatever," Stacy groused, sullenly eating the first spoonful.

"Chew it," Patrick cautioned.

"Why? Looks already all chewed up," Stacy stated.

Victoria Baker had remembered, as had three others in his office. Patrick was pleased with the large jar candle and really liked the small Teddy bear with the bendable, moldable arms that Victoria had positioned, peeking out of the gift bag. She gave Patrick a beaming smile when he told her his Stace-face would love Mr. Teddy.

At lunch, because it was his thirtieth birthday, Patrick treated himself to a lunch from the School Bus food truck. As he stood in line, his choice switched from the sloppy Jose to the Hungarian Goulash to the beef stew. The conversation around him was lively; obviously many in this line knew one another, knew the menu of the food truck.

"Sloppy Jose," he ordered and the attractive red head gave him a beaming smile. Her starched white school uniform blouse struggled to hold her pneumatic breasts confined and when she turned to scoop some cole slaw and apple sauce, her plaid skirt stretched taut over her cute backside.

"Girls didn't look like that when we was in school, eh Buddy?" an older man chuckled to Patrick.

"If they had, my grades were have been even worse than they were," Patrick agreed and the two men shared a smile and nod.

The food was delicious and Patrick wondered if he should treat himself once a month to the food truck's fare. Returning to his office, he looked around on his desk. But, Twyla had not sneaked in a birthday card, a birthday present. There was no message for him on his office voice mail or on his cell phone.

Arriving home, the table was bare. Stacy was already home and was in her room doing her homework.

'On your own for supper. Running late,' Twyla texted.

"Hey Kiddo," Patrick said, entering her bedroom.

Stacy thrilled over the small fuzzy figurine and immediately found the perfect place for him. Then she found another perfect place. The third place was the perfect place. Or maybe he would be better over here...

"So why you got this?" Stacy said, wrapping Mr. Teddy's arms around the charger for her cell phone.

"Because it's my birthday," Patrick admitted. "You in the mood for a Bully Burger?"

"Daddy! It, it's your birthday?" Stacy cried out, devastated that she had not known that today was her father's birthday.

"Mm hmm. Bully?" Patrick asked again.

After one and a half hamburgers; Patrick knew Stacy wouldn't be able to finish her Ranch house burger, they went to Holland's for hand-cranked ice cream. They hit the small shop at an opportune time; there was no line.

"Hi! Welcome to Holland's; what can I get y'all?" a cute young lady chirped.

"Today's my Daddy's birthday; y'all got birthday cakes?" Stacy asked the young woman.

"Let's see...oh! Over here? You know them Boston Cream Pies? This is just like that, but it's a Boston Ice Cream pie," the girl suggested, showing them the Boston Ice Cream Pie in the case.

"Know what? That looks like we could split that," Patrick agreed and the girl beamed.

Patrick let Stacy eat as much as she could, just nibbling on the cool, refreshing treat while he waited his turn. He nodded as he heard the manager praise the young cashier for recommending the dessert. When Stacy had to admit defeat, Patrick ate the rest of the Boston Ice Cream Pie.

"Miss? That was very good; thank you," Patrick said and again the girl beamed.

Twyla swept into the house at eight forty nine. Her brown eyes narrowed to mean little slits when Stacy told her about Bully Burgers and Holland's Ice Cream. Twyla glared at Patrick as Patrick calmly looked at her.

"And why did you take her for ice cream? You know I don't like for..." Twyla demanded of Patrick.

"Because today's his birthday; he's thirty years old today," Stacy interjected.

"It, it's what?" Twyla asked her daughter.

"Daddy's thirty years old today!" Stacy crowed.

"I, Patrick, this, today? Today's your birthday?" Twyla stammered, eyes wide.

"Mm hmm," Patrick said. "Stace-face, need to go take your bath, okay, Sweetie?"

"I didn't...why? Why didn't you tell me?" Twyla asked.

"Jesus, Twyla. Why didn't I, do you have to tell me when it's your birthday? Huh? Do you have to tell me when it's our anniversary?" Patrick spat. "Why would I have to tell you when it's my birthday? You're a grown woman. Your phone has a calendar on it." Use it."

That night, Twyla came to bed wearing her 'fuck me' outfit. Patrick looked at the twenty nine year old woman, looked at the stockings and noticed a small run in them. He looked at her 30B breasts with dime sized areolae and unexcited nipples. He noticed they sagged considerably under their weight. He looked at the slight paunch she'd not been able to get rid of since bearing Stacy and the unruly thatch of dark brown hair covering her dry slit.

They'd met at a kegger Delta Rho was hosting; she was a pledge and Patrick's dorm mate dragged Patrick with him. Twyla had drunkenly stumbled into Patrick and would have fallen had he not grabbed her.

Immediately, she started screaming at him for grabbing her breasts. Two Delta Rho girls marched over and threw Patrick and Patrick's friend out of the party. This was fine by Patrick; the beer was Gratchely's beer. It was fine by Patrick's friend; the girl he'd come to the party to hook up with had decided to hook up with someone else.

Three days later, sitting in Connelly's library, Patrick was approached by Twyla Johnson. She was a beautiful young woman, long honey blonde hair, deep brown eyes, and slim nose with pouting lips. Her breasts were large on her slim frame and Twyla was wearing a top to emphasize her bosom.

She apologized for the misunderstanding and asked if she could treat him to dinner at Golden Dragon Chinese restaurant.

She forgot her wallet so Patrick wound up paying for the dinner. Parked behind the Connelly Library, Twyla repaid Patrick with a blow job. Their next date, Twyla dropped her panties, revealing her bald mound and squealed and moaned while Patrick ate her to two orgasms.

"I'm pregnant," Twyla told him at the end of the semester.

She was failing every single class anyway so dropped out of college. Patrick was there under a scholarship and because his parents were deceased, had their life insurance money to fall back on. They married in a simple ceremony and set up house.

Now, nine and a half years later, Patrick looked at the woman he'd married. Those deep brown eyes were hard. Those pouting lips rarely formed a smile. And her twenty eight year old body looked tired and worn.

"Yay. It's time for my pity fuck," Patrick said flatly and rolled over. "Good night, Twyla."

"Family law," Patrick quietly asked Victoria Baker the next morning.

"Andrew Walker," Victoria said immediately. "If I was ever going to divorce Natalie, God knows I would never, but if I ever did, I'd get Andrew. And if I couldn't get Andrew? I'd get Theresa White."

Patrick nodded solemnly and stirred some honey into his green tea. When he carried the mug to his office, he saw he had an interoffice email from Victoria. He smiled when he saw Andrew J. Walker's phone number.

=-=-=

"Just because I missed your stupid God damned birthday?" Twyla screamed and Patrick knew she'd been served.

"My attorney's card was with the papers," Twyla. In the future, call his office. Do not call me," Patrick said and ended the call.

He knew she would call back. He'd ended the call; Twyla could not or would not accept him having the last word. So, she called right back. When he sent her to voice mail, she called right back again.

"Log it. Log how many times she does it," Andrew said. "It will show a pattern, help us establish who should get custody of Stacy."

"Right in front of her. I was right in front of her as I carried my suits out of the bedroom," Patrick said, again sending Twyla to voice mail.

"Forty three times?" Andrew said when Patrick counted the total of missed calls in the ten minute span before he blocked her phone number.

"Mm hmm. Then she called my office number fourteen times before I blocked her there," Patrick agreed.

"But, because you two have a nine year old daughter, you need to unblock her," Andrew said. "She needs to have some way of contacting you in case something happens to Stacy."

Patrick had lived in Oxbow Plaza way back when it had been the Claremont apartments. Back then, he'd lived in Apartment 311.

"Yeah, well, back then, going up and down all them steps wasn't no big deal," Patrick smiled as he opened the door for Apartment 106.

"Hey neighbor," Simone Hozarski, his neighbor from Apartment 107 smiled as she stepped out, large canvas bag over her shoulder.

"Fixing go to work?" Patrick smiled, seeing the caked on makeup on the blonde's beautiful face.

"Uh huh," Simone smiled a sassy little smile. "Need come see me, hear?"

"Wish I could," Patrick admitted, watching her sweetly rounded buttocks swivel and sway away from him.

"What? You're old enough, right?" she teased before disappearing around the corner.

"Uh huh. Can't afford that twenty five dollar cover charge on top of them sixteen dollar beers," Patrick muttered, entering his dark, cool apartment.

Upton, Stacy's annoying little Silky Terrier whimpered and whined and clawed at the bathroom door. Patrick grabbed three plastic grocery bags and Upton's leash before cracking the door slightly. Upton immediately tried to force her way through the chink and Patrick grabbed her and clipped the leash onto her collar.

Upton searched frantically for the right blade of grass to pee on. Finally, when Patrick was tempted to just wring the urine out of the animal, she found the patch she wanted and let loose.

Five more minutes of searching and Upton found somewhere to drop a deuce. Patrick bent down, reached through the plastic bag and found the droppings. Then he held the droppings while pulling the bag inside out. Voila, the poop was grabbed and Patrick's hand never came into contact.

"Wow, that's pretty smart," the horse faced divorcee in Apartment 215 praised as she and her silly Chihuahua Marco now looked for the perfect place for Marco to do his business.

Upton did not like Marco or Marco's Mommy. Marco bared his teeth and Patrick had to hold Upton back, else she would thrash the pudgy little beast.

"Yes, well, someone's hungry for her dinner," Patrick said and left.