Read Online Sudden Exposure by Susan Dunlap - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Dunlap
Tags: Suspense
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and black olive had been devoured hours ago when the night was young and the tenants prowling. But just yesterday I’d bought a gallon of chocolate marzipan ice cream, the kind with swaths of dark chocolate cutting the sweetness of the almond paste. I’d hidden it behind the ice trays. Some of that was bound to be left.
I started toward the kitchen—I could taste the marzipan, feel the ground almonds between my teeth, smell the—I stopped. No. I couldn’t have ice cream, either. Howard classified that not as the staff of life, which it is in my life, but as junk food.
Damn, I needed to eat something. There was a box of chocolate chip cookies Howard’s mother had sent in the …
No.
There were some Snickers in the bedroom.
He’d probably consider them junk food, too.
Suddenly I was starved. What could I eat? It was way too early for Noah’s Bagels to open. The scones at Peet’s Coffee wouldn’t be available for four more hours. What else was there? I was ravenous and there wasn’t one thing available.
I was going to shrivel and die. And the only keening at my wake would be Howard’s laughter.
In the meantime I’d spend the rest of the night lying awake thinking how hungry—and stupid—I was.
In the end I—and Howard—decided to test the theory that sating one appetite dulls the others.
It was close to 11 A.M. when I woke up. Starved. I went through the whole food litany again—pizza, ice cream, cookies, the emergency Snickers in the night stand. The Snickers was out anyway. Howard, the crumb, had devoured it after concluding that the Law of Cross-sating is erroneous. He’d taken it into the bathroom as a courtesy to me, but I could still hear the wrapper crackling and catch a whiff of that chocolate and caramel. It had been the last smell in my mind before I fell asleep. It must have stayed there all night—I remembered a dream in which I was buried, happily, in a mudslide—and now the whole bedroom smelled like suburban Hershey. Miserably, hungrily, I sank back under the covers. What did Prozac taste like? But even if it came in chocolate, the tablets had to be too small to matter.
In a wicker chair across the room, Howard sat, elbows on thighs, chin in hands, eyes glazed. “Walls are filthy,” he grumbled. “Need a coat of paint.”
The walls—deep green—could have gone half a century without showing dirt. In fact, Howard had painted them a year ago. I smiled. “A little lost for things to do?” Caught in my own anguish, I’d almost forgotten Howard’s half of the bargain.
“Nah. I’m going to the Y. Or maybe I’ll just come back to bed.”
“Maybe you should just do that.”
He was dressed, but undressing was another of his skills. He dropped his jeans to the floor, exposing his long lightly furred legs, stretched, and wriggled out of the yellow turtleneck I’d gotten him from Eddie Bauer, displaying his lightly muscled chest and those sinewy shoulders that told of hours of crawl and butterfly. And when his Jockeys hit the floor, I noted once again what a fine tight set of buns the man had. I clasped one of them as he slid under the sheets and kicked off the blankets. My nipples hardened against his chest; I ran my lips across his collarbone, and when he pulled me closer, I arched my neck so I could continue to breathe. I loved the man; he had a great body, but practically speaking, in bed there was too much of it. And there had been times when he’d clutched me to him and pressed my mouth and both nostrils hard into his chest. Sex is like swimming, though, and over the years I’d learned where the air pockets were. And now I luxuriated in the smooth warm feel of his skin, the communion of his kisses that required no words.
But an hour later, after we’d traipsed sweatily to the shower, I was hungry.
“Let’s get on the road,” Howard said.
“Okay, if we can go by Peet’s first.” At least I could have a latte. No one in Berkeley would label Peet’s as junk
I started toward the kitchen—I could taste the marzipan, feel the ground almonds between my teeth, smell the—I stopped. No. I couldn’t have ice cream, either. Howard classified that not as the staff of life, which it is in my life, but as junk food.
Damn, I needed to eat something. There was a box of chocolate chip cookies Howard’s mother had sent in the …
No.
There were some Snickers in the bedroom.
He’d probably consider them junk food, too.
Suddenly I was starved. What could I eat? It was way too early for Noah’s Bagels to open. The scones at Peet’s Coffee wouldn’t be available for four more hours. What else was there? I was ravenous and there wasn’t one thing available.
I was going to shrivel and die. And the only keening at my wake would be Howard’s laughter.
In the meantime I’d spend the rest of the night lying awake thinking how hungry—and stupid—I was.
In the end I—and Howard—decided to test the theory that sating one appetite dulls the others.
It was close to 11 A.M. when I woke up. Starved. I went through the whole food litany again—pizza, ice cream, cookies, the emergency Snickers in the night stand. The Snickers was out anyway. Howard, the crumb, had devoured it after concluding that the Law of Cross-sating is erroneous. He’d taken it into the bathroom as a courtesy to me, but I could still hear the wrapper crackling and catch a whiff of that chocolate and caramel. It had been the last smell in my mind before I fell asleep. It must have stayed there all night—I remembered a dream in which I was buried, happily, in a mudslide—and now the whole bedroom smelled like suburban Hershey. Miserably, hungrily, I sank back under the covers. What did Prozac taste like? But even if it came in chocolate, the tablets had to be too small to matter.
In a wicker chair across the room, Howard sat, elbows on thighs, chin in hands, eyes glazed. “Walls are filthy,” he grumbled. “Need a coat of paint.”
The walls—deep green—could have gone half a century without showing dirt. In fact, Howard had painted them a year ago. I smiled. “A little lost for things to do?” Caught in my own anguish, I’d almost forgotten Howard’s half of the bargain.
“Nah. I’m going to the Y. Or maybe I’ll just come back to bed.”
“Maybe you should just do that.”
He was dressed, but undressing was another of his skills. He dropped his jeans to the floor, exposing his long lightly furred legs, stretched, and wriggled out of the yellow turtleneck I’d gotten him from Eddie Bauer, displaying his lightly muscled chest and those sinewy shoulders that told of hours of crawl and butterfly. And when his Jockeys hit the floor, I noted once again what a fine tight set of buns the man had. I clasped one of them as he slid under the sheets and kicked off the blankets. My nipples hardened against his chest; I ran my lips across his collarbone, and when he pulled me closer, I arched my neck so I could continue to breathe. I loved the man; he had a great body, but practically speaking, in bed there was too much of it. And there had been times when he’d clutched me to him and pressed my mouth and both nostrils hard into his chest. Sex is like swimming, though, and over the years I’d learned where the air pockets were. And now I luxuriated in the smooth warm feel of his skin, the communion of his kisses that required no words.
But an hour later, after we’d traipsed sweatily to the shower, I was hungry.
“Let’s get on the road,” Howard said.
“Okay, if we can go by Peet’s first.” At least I could have a latte. No one in Berkeley would label Peet’s as junk
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