Read Online The Mercy Journals by Claudia Casper - Free Book Online
Authors: Claudia Casper
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then broke the eggs into the pan and watched the tide of white move from the edges to the vortex.
She had ravaged me the last time and there was a predatory aspect to her now, like our family cat who used to pretend to sleep in the backyard while birds hopped closer.
I forked the sausages onto two plates, and the egg and toast, and called madam to dinner. I had one hand on the back of a kitchen chair while the other hung by my side, fluttering, as though I were playing alternating notes on a piano with my thumb and baby finger. She looked at that hand and lay the book down.
We sat at the table watching the goldfish while we ate. I berated myself for offering her dinner. It was much more awkward than just having sex. At least she was hungry. She ate voraciously.
Do you come from a large family? I inquired.
No. She took another bite and asked with her mouth full, Why?
Usually people who eat that fast had to compete for seconds.
No, I was an only child. I guess I just like to get to my pleasures fast.
I choked and laughed at the same time.
It was then I asked about her, where she grew up, that kind of thing. She gave me the thin version. A résumé.
I’m from Bellingham, former Washington State. Only child, older parents, both dead. Before the die-off I was a custom’s officer at the Peace Arch/Blaine border crossing. I did that for seven years. It got tough when people started trying to move north and the Canadians made us turn everyone back. The job got a lot better after annexation and all we had to do was direct people to the nearest resources. When OneWorld came into play I could’ve switched to doing city borders, but a lot of folks wanted that gig and I was done. I travelled for a couple of years, then I started performing. I sing and dance now to cover my rations and such. Though I could use a larger food ration.
It wasn’t hard to notice what was not being said. I travelled for a couple of years. What that would have meant for a lone woman in the early days of OneWorld. And then the next thirteen years— I sing and dance to cover my rations. I sensed a fellow loner marching with oblivion’s band, yet she seemed also to be facing forward, taking risks the way I used to. I admired her. She finished eating and lay her fork and knife neatly across the centre of her plate, pushed her chair out from the table, and tilted it back on two legs.
I looked up. The widest point of her face was just below where her eyes were. Her brows were dark and defined.
The last time someone looked at me, Allen Quincy, the way she did, was … never. I felt like a package being opened with an exacto knife.
She took my hand and led me to my own bedroom. She undressed me and then undressed herself. Her eyes were filled with light. She pulled me down to my bed and helped take off my prosthesis and put her lips to my stump and kissed it. Every nuance of movement between us seemed to spark another nuance. The feeling of skin, naked skin, was like waking up from a dream.
Next morning I woke up first. She was still in the bed beside me. It was my day off, it was Sunday, we could go to a teahouse, I could treat her to something. I was thinking maybe I could pull this off, this romance thing. I felt fine.
Usually I would have caught up on the news, maybe doubled up on my daily calisthenics, washed the laundry and hung it out if it wasn’t raining. I would’ve spent the afternoon at the library, come home, made dinner, and gone to bed.
Instead I doubled up on the porridge and tea and served madam in bed. She was strong, wiry, and hungry—a perfect combination of satiation and desire. A deep burn ignited in me, holding her that morning.
We stepped out together. The wind was up, the temperature suddenly warmer, warm for winter, even now, and the sky was brown. We could taste the dust from the Great PlainsDesert a thousand kilometres to the east. Fine sand piled up in small drifts. We bent over to avoid the sting on our faces, held
She had ravaged me the last time and there was a predatory aspect to her now, like our family cat who used to pretend to sleep in the backyard while birds hopped closer.
I forked the sausages onto two plates, and the egg and toast, and called madam to dinner. I had one hand on the back of a kitchen chair while the other hung by my side, fluttering, as though I were playing alternating notes on a piano with my thumb and baby finger. She looked at that hand and lay the book down.
We sat at the table watching the goldfish while we ate. I berated myself for offering her dinner. It was much more awkward than just having sex. At least she was hungry. She ate voraciously.
Do you come from a large family? I inquired.
No. She took another bite and asked with her mouth full, Why?
Usually people who eat that fast had to compete for seconds.
No, I was an only child. I guess I just like to get to my pleasures fast.
I choked and laughed at the same time.
It was then I asked about her, where she grew up, that kind of thing. She gave me the thin version. A résumé.
I’m from Bellingham, former Washington State. Only child, older parents, both dead. Before the die-off I was a custom’s officer at the Peace Arch/Blaine border crossing. I did that for seven years. It got tough when people started trying to move north and the Canadians made us turn everyone back. The job got a lot better after annexation and all we had to do was direct people to the nearest resources. When OneWorld came into play I could’ve switched to doing city borders, but a lot of folks wanted that gig and I was done. I travelled for a couple of years, then I started performing. I sing and dance now to cover my rations and such. Though I could use a larger food ration.
It wasn’t hard to notice what was not being said. I travelled for a couple of years. What that would have meant for a lone woman in the early days of OneWorld. And then the next thirteen years— I sing and dance to cover my rations. I sensed a fellow loner marching with oblivion’s band, yet she seemed also to be facing forward, taking risks the way I used to. I admired her. She finished eating and lay her fork and knife neatly across the centre of her plate, pushed her chair out from the table, and tilted it back on two legs.
I looked up. The widest point of her face was just below where her eyes were. Her brows were dark and defined.
The last time someone looked at me, Allen Quincy, the way she did, was … never. I felt like a package being opened with an exacto knife.
She took my hand and led me to my own bedroom. She undressed me and then undressed herself. Her eyes were filled with light. She pulled me down to my bed and helped take off my prosthesis and put her lips to my stump and kissed it. Every nuance of movement between us seemed to spark another nuance. The feeling of skin, naked skin, was like waking up from a dream.
Next morning I woke up first. She was still in the bed beside me. It was my day off, it was Sunday, we could go to a teahouse, I could treat her to something. I was thinking maybe I could pull this off, this romance thing. I felt fine.
Usually I would have caught up on the news, maybe doubled up on my daily calisthenics, washed the laundry and hung it out if it wasn’t raining. I would’ve spent the afternoon at the library, come home, made dinner, and gone to bed.
Instead I doubled up on the porridge and tea and served madam in bed. She was strong, wiry, and hungry—a perfect combination of satiation and desire. A deep burn ignited in me, holding her that morning.
We stepped out together. The wind was up, the temperature suddenly warmer, warm for winter, even now, and the sky was brown. We could taste the dust from the Great PlainsDesert a thousand kilometres to the east. Fine sand piled up in small drifts. We bent over to avoid the sting on our faces, held
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