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More like You

S.F. Wright

    I didn’t care much for Lewis Goodman, but I liked going to his house. He had Super Nintendo, an adjustable basketball hoop, and a backyard big enough to have games of touch football. And there was also his mom, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
    Mrs. Goodman was a large-breasted, slender brunette who favored running suits which fit her like a second skin. She had them in different colors- light blue, lavender, brown- the top of which was never zipped up all the way.
    The other guys I played football with thought Mrs. Goodman was gorgeous, too.
    “God, how I’d love to fuck her,” Nick Lake said one October day as we walked home from a game at Lewis’s house. It was six o’clock and already dark, and the piles of leaves on the sides of the street made it impossible for two cars to pass at once.
    “She’s got the nicest rack I’ve ever seen,” Mike Galloway said.
    “I’d kill to be Lewis’s dad,” Gary Ross said.
    Mr. Goodman was a tall man with thinning hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. He never spoke to Lewis’ friends. Often if we were over there late he’d walk halfway down the basement stairs, look at us with annoyance, and then say, “I need to speak to you, Lewis.” Lewis would go upstairs, and a minute later he’d return and say, “You guys have to get going. My dad says it’s too late for my friends to be over.”

    When November arrived the days got colder, but we still played touch football at Lewis’ house after school. I always kept an eye out for Mrs. Goodman. Despite the change of weather she still wore her tight, low-cut running suits.
    Then around Thanksgiving a rumor began to circulate: Lewis’ parents were getting divorced.
    I couldn’t believe it. Who’d divorce Mrs. Goodman? You couldn’t find a hotter wife. I decided it must’ve been she who wanted to get divorced from Mr. Goodman and not the other way around.
    No one said anything to Lewis about his parents, although I’m certain he knew everybody knew. We simply continued playing football and watching out for his mom when she’d call him from the backdoor for something.
    “I wonder why they’re getting divorced,” Mike Galloway said one afternoon as we walked home.
    “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend,” Gary Ross said.
    “Maybe he’s tired of her,” Mike said.
    “No,” I said, with authority. “I’m sure it’s she who wants the divorce.”
    “How would you know?” Nick Lake said, skeptically.
    “If she was your wife,” I said, confidently, “would you divorce her?”
    No one, not even Nick, disagreed with my reasoning.

    One Saturday in early December I rode my bike to Hauser’s Deli, and as I was going inside I ran into Lewis coming out with a bottle of fruit punch Gatorade, a stick of Slim Jim beef jerky, and a bag of Lay’s potato chips.
    “Hey,” he said
    “Hey.”
    “What are you doing?”
    “Just getting something to eat.”
    “I’ll wait for you.”
    Hanging out with Lewis Goodman at his house with his Super Nintendo, basketball hoop, and the chance of seeing his mom was one thing; but spending time with him away from his home was something different entirely and not something I wanted to do. So trying not to sound rude but also wanting to express disinterest, I shrugged and said, “If you want,” and went inside.
    As I waited to pay for my bottle of birch beer, Rice Krispy treat, and bag of Lay’s potato chips, I tried to think of an excuse to not hang out with Lewis. I decided on saying I had a dentist appointment.
    But when I stepped outside, Lewis said, “Want to go to my house? I got this new game: Streetfighter II.”
    This changed things. “Cool,” I said, and forgot about my fake dentist appointment.
    We rode our bikes. I hung my plastic bag with my snacks on the handlebar. The temperature was in the mid-thirties, and the cold air whipped against my face and caused my eyes to tear and my nose to run. I didn’t have any tissues, so before we got to Lewis’s house I blew my nose into my hand and wiped it on my pants.
    We went into Lewis’ house through his garage and passed his mom’s red Acura. The other side of the garage, which usually housed Mr. Goodman’s silver BMW, was empty.
    We had our snacks and drinks and then played Streetfighter II. It was a good game, although difficult to get used to at first. Soon I got really into it, though. I became so immersed in it, in fact, I was annoyed when Lewis suddenly paused the game and simply sat there.
    I knew he was having one of his emotional crises, and I cursed myself for coming here. Finally, I said, tentatively, “What’s wrong?”
    Lewis was quiet; then he said, “I know everyone knows my parents are getting divorced.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I decided to act surprised. “Really? I didn’t hear anything.”
    He gave me a look of impatient disbelief. “Come on. You knew.”
    I shrugged sheepishly and looked at the floor. “Well, I guess I’ve heard a few things.”
    He was silent, staring at his game control. Then he said, “You know what happened?”
    Part of me did not want to hear any of this, sensing a responsibility and burden about to be placed upon me. But another part was eager to know why Mrs. Goodman was splitting from her husband. So I looked at him and shook my head.
    “My mom thinks my dad was having an affair,” Lewis said. “He says he wasn’t, but she says she has proof. When I ask her what proof she tells me to mind my own business.”
    I considered this. “Well, what do you think?” I finally said, not sure what else to say.
    “I believe my dad,” Lewis said, impassioned. “He wouldn’t lie. I think my mom’s being a real bitch about it. I mean, my dad’s living in some hotel now, when he should be here, and every night. . . Every night. . .” His voice cracked.
    I looked away, at the wall. I heard soft sobs. I didn’t want to look at Lewis. But I had to, so I did.
    He was crying. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted him to stop. I wished I hadn’t run into him.
    For a few moments the room was quiet except for the faint murmur of the video game consul and Lewis’ stifled sobs.
    Finally, I coughed. “Sorry, man,” I said. “But you have to look on the bright side. They might get back together. I mean, maybe it’s just a phase your mom’s going through.”
    Lewis nodded and sniffled. I could tell he was trying to hold back more sobs.
    Right then his mother called from upstairs. “Lewis?”
    “What?” he said, trying to control his voice.
    “Do you and Sean want some hot chocolate?”
    Lewis looked at me inquisitively with his red eyes.
    I shrugged. “I’ll have some if you want some.”
    “All right,” he called back, his voice nasally.
    “Are you getting sick? It sounds like you have a cold.”
    Lewis wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I’m fine.”
    “Make sure you wear your jacket when you go outside. I don’t want you coming down with anything, okay? I’ll let you know when the hot chocolate’s ready.”
    Lewis got a tissue and blew his nose. Then he picked up his video game control. “Want to play?”

    I again became immersed in the game. It seemed as if hardly any time had gone by when Lewis’ mother called, “The hot chocolate’s ready!”
    We kept playing, though, completely engrossed. It wasn’t until Mrs. Goodman called us a second time that we went upstairs.
    On the kitchen table two steaming cups of hot chocolate sat next to a bag of mini-marshmallows. Mrs. Goodman stood by the sink. She wore a tight silver tracksuit, her ass looking shapely and firm. My dick slightly stiffened.
    “There you are, guys,” she said. As we sat down she reached to open a cabinet, briefly revealing her toned and tanned midriff. What an asshole Mr. Goodman must be, I thought, to screw that up.
    Mrs. Goodman then poured herself a cup of coffee. I thought she was going to sit down by us, but she just stood by the sink sipping from her cup and looking pensively out the window.
    “What do you think of Streetfighter II?” Lewis said.
    I’d forgotten he was there, so enraptured was I by his mother. “It’s a good game,” I said, and took a sip of my hot chocolate, hoping he hadn’t noticed me staring at his mom. “It’s really good.”
    “Lewis?” his mother said; she’d turned from the window and now faced us. “Did you ask Sean if he wanted to stay for dinner?”
    Of course I’ll stay, I thought. But how about just you and me, Mrs. Goodman, and we send old Lewis here to his room?
    Lewis shrugged and looked at me. “Want to stay for dinner?”
    “I was just going to make hamburgers,” his mother said. “But I’ve got plenty if you’d like to stay.”
    “Sure,” I said, concentrating on keeping my eyes on her eyes and not on her tits. “Thanks very much.”
    She smiled faintly and looked back out the window.

    We returned to Streetfighter II, playing intently, speaking rarely. Almost two hours passed when Lewis’s mother called us to tell us dinner was ready.
    Three plates, glasses, and small bowls were set on the table. In the middle there was a large bowl of salad. As we sat down Mrs. Goodman asked what we wanted to drink.
    “Iced tea,” Lewis said.
    She turned to me.
    “Iced tea is fine,” I said.
    She opened the refrigerator and took out a white jug and poured iced tea into all three glasses. Then she took a platter from the counter with three large hamburgers on it and placed one on each plate. As she put one on mine I got a nice view of her cleavage.
    Mrs. Goodman then sat down and put salad from the large bowl into the smaller bowl next to her plate. Then Lewis did the same. I didn’t like salad and only wanted the hamburger, but I didn’t want to look rude and uncultivated. So I did the same. I tasted the salad. I didn’t like it. But I ate it.
    When we finished the salad we began eating the hamburgers. I put lots of ketchup on mine. It tasted good. I told Mrs. Goodman so.
    “Why, thank you,” she said, smiling at me.
    God, how I wanted to fuck her.

    We were halfway through our hamburgers when the phone rang. Mrs. Goodman got up, but when she looked at the caller I.D. she made a face and came back to the table. The phone kept ringing.
    “Aren’t you going to get it?” Lewis said.
    “It’s your father,” she said. “I’m not talking to him.”
    Lewis gave her a look of reproach and walked to the phone and picked it up. “Hi, Dad.”
    I sat there, feeling awkward. I glanced at Mrs. Goodman. She was watching Lewis.
    Lewis spoke so softly I couldn’t understand what he said. After a minute he looked at his mother. “Dad wants to talk to you.”
    “I’m not talking to him,” she said.
    “Mom,” Lewis said, sounding whiny, his face contorted in annoyance.
    Mrs. Goodman took a bite of her hamburger and didn’t answer.
    Lewis put the phone back to his ear. “I don’t know,” he said more loudly, his voice trembling. “Because she’s a bitch!”
    Mrs. Goodman turned sharply toward Lewis but didn’t say anything.
    “All right,” Lewis said. His eyes were wet. “Bye.” He slammed the phone down and glowered at his mother.
    “I hate you.” Tears streamed down his face. “I fucking hate you.” He left the kitchen, and a moment later a door slammed.
    I sat there quietly. Mrs. Goodman sighed and looked at the table. I was only half-finished with my hamburger, but it felt inappropriate to continue eating.
    Mrs. Goodman looked up at me, as if suddenly realizing I was there. “Finish eating, if you want. Don’t worry about him.”
    I nodded, hesitant; then I picked up my hamburger and ate.
    Mrs. Goodman sighed again. She looked at me and appeared as though she was going to say something but then seemed to change her mind. But a moment later she appeared to change her mind again, and she said, “Lewis’ father and I are separating. Lewis is not taking it very well.”
    I nodded and tried to think of something tactful to say. Finally, I said, “It must be difficult.”
    Mrs. Goodman exhaled slowly and stared at the middle of the table. “He’s never been able to cope with anything. He always gets hysterical. I hope he doesn’t continue to be like that when he’s older.” She then looked at me and smiled. “I wish he were more like you, so carefree and not worrying about anything.”
    I smiled back, although I wanted to tell her I was in fact not carefree and worried about many things.
    Mrs. Goodman got up and cleared Lewis’ and her plates. She hadn’t finished her dinner. She washed the dishes at the sink, and as I ate the rest of my hamburger I often glanced at her ass.
    When I finished I sat there for a moment. It seemed rude to just stand up and leave. But really, though I could’ve stared at Mrs. Goodman all night, there was no reason for me to stay. So I gently pushed my chair back and stood up. “I guess I’m going to go. Thanks for having me over for dinner. It was really good. Tell Lewis goodbye for me.”
    Mrs. Goodman didn’t answer. I then saw that her shoulders were trembling.
    I didn’t know what to do. My heart began to race. “Mrs. Goodman?”
    She began to sob. I wondered if I should just leave. But I took a few steps closer to her, and she half turned to me. Tears ran down her face.
    “Are you okay?” I said, because this sounded like the appropriate thing to say.
    Mrs. Goodman waved her hand dismissively and reached for a tissue. Even though she was crying, she looked even hotter; the tears made her alluringly vulnerable. Once more, I so wanted to fuck her.
    “Excuse me.” She blew her nose. “This whole thing is just very upsetting.”
    I nodded in what I hoped looked like an understanding way, and as she reached for another tissue I glanced at her breasts, navel, and thighs and thought the only thing between me and her is that skintight running suit.
    Mrs. Goodman blew her nose again and appeared as if she was going to say something more. But then another crying fit overtook her and she started sobbing again.
    I again had no idea what to do. Should I leave? Should I say something comforting? Mrs. Goodman’s sobbing then intensified, and I decided to do something I’d seen people in movies do in these types of situations: I put my hand on her shoulder.
    Mrs. Goodman looked surprised, and I feared I’d done something wrong. But then she smiled- albeit in a self-effacing way- and even forced a slight laugh; she then reached over and patted my hand and then rested her palm on my knuckles. Her hand was warm and lovely, and my dick got hard again.
    For a few moments we stood like that. Mrs. Goodman seemed to stop crying. She wiped her eyes with her free hand and forced a small smile and slight laugh. I didn’t move my hand, as she hadn’t moved hers from on top of mine.
    I began to feel a bit ridiculous, but the touch of Mrs. Goodman’s palm felt so nice, as did the warmth of her shoulder beneath my own palm and fingers, I wasn’t going to move until she indicated me to do so.
    Then suddenly Mrs. Goodman was no longer smiling or laughing but was looking at me intently, or what I thought was intently. How gorgeous she was! My erection bulged against my pants. As she continued looking at me a wave of heat coursed through my head, an electric tingle ran down my back, and a gorgeous hollowness suffused my stomach. I felt in that moment that I was on the brink of change or discovery, only I had to act or it would forever be lost, and without thinking anymore, I stepped closer and put my other hand on Mrs. Goodman’s breast.
    For a moment she didn’t move. I kept my hand there, my heart racing; I’d never felt so alive. Her breast was soft and warm, her tracksuit velvety and delicate. My erection was so stiff it hurt, and images flashed through my mind: walking with her to her bedroom; taking her clothes off; fucking her.
    But suddenly Mrs. Goodman pushed my hands away. “What are you doing?” Her eyes were narrowed, her expression shocked and indignant.
    “Um.” As ethereal and daring I’d felt a moment ago was as abashed and inept as I felt now.
    Mrs. Goodman now looked plain furious, and she pointed in the direction of the door. “I think you better leave.”
    I held my hands up in apology. “Sure. Sorry.”
    She kept looking at me while also slowly shaking her head.
    “Sorry,” I said again, and hurried out of the kitchen.
    Mrs. Goodman didn’t follow me, but a moment after I closed the front door I heard it lock behind me.
    Feeling numb, I walked to the garage door where my bike was parked. Quickly I rode down the driveway and onto the street.
    It was dark out and had gotten colder. As I rode past the Goodmans’ house and saw Lewis’ light on in his room, I realized I’d left my jacket in the basement. But I couldn’t go back for it. All I could do was pedal hard so I’d get home as quickly as possible.

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