Maureen smells like pumpkins and biscuit-dough.
She stands by the stove, apron-clad and the like, stirring away at a bubbling pot of who-knows-what. Early Christmas dinner; the parents will be dining with us for the first time, and I can already feel myself beginning to sweat.
"Honeybear, watch that shirt by the fire! It's new!" The garment in question is actually one of mine, on a loan at our discovery that she didn't have any managing to keep her cleavage nicely put away. Not that I'm complaining about that on a more regular basis, mind you, but with my mother…
She looks well put together, surprisingly, for once. Her hair's still a mess, spilling in tendrils over her shoulders and probably into the soup, but I've fought so many battles over that one I've learned when to admit defeat. Maureen can feel me watching her, I know it, because she bounces a bit with a giggle and a smile. My roving glance is cut off, however, by the time I reach her hip. I quirk an inquisitorial eyebrow, and feel my jaw nearly hit the floor.
Her turquoise thong hangs out three inches above the waistline of her pants. My god.
"Fix your underwear," I hear myself bark, and inwardly, I cringe at the nagging tone. She isn't a child, I'm constantly reminded. Although, that's hard to think on when your parents were due a half-hour ago, and dinner isn't even prepared.
"Sorry." She laughs menacingly, swaying her hips to the beat of Charlie Parker playing over our stereo. "But my hands are occupied, can you get it for me?" She juts out a leg and motions with her elbow for me to tug up her slacks.
"No way. Do it yourself." I'm grimacing now, pinching my nose at the beginnings of a migraine.
"Wow, someone's a bitch today." Her glance is stone cold yet petulant, and reminds me of a painting I once saw in an illustrated Alice in Wonderland. It was the Queen of Hearts, go figure. They're one and the same.
"I'm sorry, babe." I really am sorry, and I'm decent enough to blush in shame. "I'm in a foul mood today. I'll try and stop."
She giggles again, and dances on the spot. "Ding, dong, the witch is dead…" The familiar ditty pierces through my already searing skull like a hot poker, and I groan again.
"Please don't sing that. Fuckin' munchkins." God, I hate them.
I lean in closer to swipe some stray flour from her cheek with my thumb, and the heat from the stove combined with the subtle odors simmering from her cooking sends me into a swoon. She laughs as I stumble backward a bit, and nuzzles her cheek further into my hand, smiling cheekily as she places a gentle kiss on my palm.
"So, Pookie, this whole 'meet the parents.' I've never met the parents before; what exactly does it entail?" Her finger's fresh out of the chocolate fondue, and she trails it up to her mouth, swirling it enticingly around her tongue in ways she knows leave my insides quivering.
"Jesus, certainly not that." But I can't help but love her as I hold her from behind, wrapping my arms tightly around her delicate waist and inhaling nosefuls of that dark glorious mane. She smells of pumpkins and gingerbread and the flour starts to tickle my senses and oh god, that's the buzzer and shit, I'm about to sneeze on the macaroni.
I turn away just in time. She glowers at me, vaguely disdainful. "Coulda ruined my dinner there, Pookie. I'll get the door."
Later on, halfway through the dreaded meal, once the parents have produced their customary bottle of Merlot, conversation turns to the how-did-you-meets, which I've never liked anyway. I let Maureen follow through, although I'm anxious to hear whether her response will be as foul as usual. She's working on a third glass, already, the wine rich, dark, and pungent. She nurses it to the point where even I can begin to feel the room getting warmer, senses gently softening with each drawn-out sip.
"It was that bar, over on 32nd," I hear her say offhandedly. "More wine, Joey?" She'd never dare call me Pookie in front of them. I nod, and as she leans over to pour me a refill, I glance up at exactly the wrong moment.
She isn't wearing a bra.
I swallow hard, and feel my cheeks darken in a painfully-obvious flush. I avert my eyes carefully for the rest of the evening, picking at her disgustingly lovely cranberry sauce with frustration written in every glance. She's all "pass the potatoes," and "Mrs. Jefferson, what a lovely necklace!" She'll ever be the sweet girl with them, hemming and hawing her way into their good graces; then she knows she'll be on the receiving end of their sympathy if we ever decide to split.
Because really, how much more of this am I expected to live with? How much more of this subconscious manipulation? I don't have the self-control that she does, and if she ever heard me say that, I wouldn't see the end of it for months. How long till what was once "enough" becomes Too Much, and I have no other choice?
She told me one morning, "Joanne, you want their approval so badly you're afraid to let anyone act the way they should, even yourself." Frighteningly, I'm beginning to wonder whether she could be right. She's the sweet girl to them both, but she's my sweet girl, and I wish somewhere in my heart that I could loosen enough to fit us both.
I confront her about the bra thing later, while she's undressing, so she can't call me on the fact that I noticed. Oh, she knows I saw, I'm made sure of that by the smirk she still wears, but as long as I keep that information private, I don't have to play her game.
"Sorry," she says for what seems like the fifth time today, pulling on one of Mark's old shirts. "I guess I forgot."
"Yes, Maureen, because it's just that easy for you to forget to put on a bra." She tosses me an insulted look, then, one that clearly says, "You don't ever wear one, anyway, so what's the point?" and the point is that she's my precious girl, and I only want to adore her more every time I look at her, and goddamnit, that's happening, but now I'm more than terrified about what's to come. So I only glare back, angry and hurt and confused, wanting her and wishing I didn't quite so much.
But I love her still as she clambers into bed, all mussed and pissed off and smelling ever-so-faintly of pumpkins. She feels me shiver beneath the down quilt and envelops my cold legs with her bare thighs, comforting me in ways only she knows will make me gasp and draw in shaky breath, reeling from her magic touch as she smoothes away my wrinkles and worry lines with the caress of one small hand.
Later that night, she curls into me in her haphazard manner, cuddling close between my chin and shoulder and sleeping all the while. I can still smell the pumpkin, lacing its way softly through her tousled curls. I kiss her hairline, her cheek, her eyelid, her nose, her mouth, lingering everywhere long enough that she begins to taste like that wine, heady and potent, intoxicating me through and through.
"Why, goodnight, my sleeping beauty from the pumpkin patch," I whisper to her in the dark. And maybe it's just the shadow of the moon on her face, but I think, in her sleep, I see her smile.