The last of the dishes is cleared from the table, and I put them in the sink. I scrub the plate I’d eaten from and hand it to my father. Dinner had been just me and him, eating in the apartment we share above his tailor shop, in complete silence. It’s been this way for months. “You did remember to lock up, right?”
I nod. “Of course, Papa.”
“You wound up and covered all the fabric?”
Another nod as I hand him the scrubbed plate. “Yes, and I even went through the dustpan with a magnet to find the last needles.”
He takes the plate from me and rinses it. “Of course you did. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t even have to ask you these things.”
I put my strength into scrubbing, getting my hand deep in the saucepan to clean up the mistake I'd made earlier. Even though I'd squandered the last of our cream by burning his favorite pasta sauce recipe, he hadn't scolded me. He says I outgrew the need for it long ago.
“It’s okay, Papa. The shop means a lot to you. It means a lot to me, too.”
“I know. That’s why I was checking. But I really should stop. You haven’t given me any reason to doubt that you’ll do a good job running it.”
“You’re right to worry. I know it’s because you want to leave me the best.” I get started on the silverware once I've handed him the last plate.
“Damn right I do.” As I thread the cloth through the tines of the fork, I watch his lip quiver. He wants to call me his “treasure”, but he’s holding back because he knows it embarrasses me. “And who knows how long you’ll hold onto it?”
I shrug. “There’s no saying. I suppose…as long as I can keep it profitable.” I instantly regret my choice of words.
“Right. Profitable.” He's right to be upset. For the past six months, he and I have made just barely enough profit to keep ourselves fed and the looms filled. Then he sighs. “Sorry. Sorry. I don't blame you.”
“There's no point in assigning blame. Bad years happen. And at least we have each other.” Finding no more dishes in the water, I drain my side of the sink and rinse my hands. “We'll come back from this, you’ll see. In fact, I even think that before the year’s out, we’ll be able to hire more help.”
“Maybe so. Still, day to day…it's horribly stressful.” He stacks the last plate upright in the rack, then washes his hands. “To think of you going through that, day after day for the rest of your…very, very long life…it pains me.”
“I’ll be fine.” I assure him. “You gave me a great start, and you’ve seen how fast I learn.”
The living room couch is just a few steps away, and we walk over to it and sit down with almost no space between us. For the first time this evening, he smiles. “Shame I won't be around to see you at the height of it.”
I scoff. “I’m nowhere near my peak. That's that much more of my stumbling you won't have to cringe through.” I lay my head on his shoulder.
“That's something,” he kisses the top of my head. “You know, I never cared for Theresa.” He mentions my old lover, who died about a month after mother. “She was so nasty; to you, to me, to the whole world. But I can't think of anyone better to get that gift of hers than you. And to top it off…she's gone.”
“She is.” I take his left hand in both of mine. “And she never made me stop loving you. Nothing can do that. I’ll love you forever, Papa.”
“And coming from you, that's really saying something.” He goes quiet for a while. “I still love your mother, but it's hard when she's gone. At least it won't be much longer ‘til I see her again.”
I look up at him. He looks like he's staring into eternity. “Don't talk like that. You're the strongest man I know!”
“My body, maybe.” I feel a chill from his voice, which usually isn’t this hollow. “My soul is tired. I’m weary of life.”
I sit bolt upright, still holding his hand. “How can you say that?! I still need you!”
He avoids my gaze. “Let’s be honest here. You know you're not the reason the shop struggles to get by. I haven't exactly been in top form since your mother left us.”
“You will get better, Papa. That’s who you are. You didn’t need her to make you amazing.”
“Look.” His voice hardens. “I know you and she didn’t always see eye to eye–”
I resist the temptation to say, “To put it mildly.” He doesn’t need that.
“But she really did love you. She just didn’t know how to say it in a way you’d understand. And no, she wasn’t my sole inspiration. My work won her over, but I was a tailor before I met her. It…it just hurts so much.”
He can't hide his voice cracking, which I notice as his eyes flutter like they're about to well up. Since Theresa, few sounds escape my notice. Once I figured out what she’d done to me, I told him, and nobody else. He took it even better than I expected, and said he’d love me no matter what I’d become.
I’m still not done resenting mother, but I don’t want him to forget her, and I want him to do more of the designs that made him the talk of the town. I especially don’t want him to cry. What’s a girl to do? “I’m sorry, Papa. I know you miss her.”
He puts his free hand on my face. “Hard not to remember her when you’re around. You look just like the day I met her.”
“And I always will.” I feel a spark pass from my eyes to his, then all rational thought goes out the window and I lean forward and kiss him. Not on the cheek, or the nose, and not the kiss of a daughter trying to reassure her father, though that’s what this is. I give him the kiss of a lover trying to awaken an inner muse. My lips mash against his, my lower sliding into his mouth, his stubble tickling my skin. Then, I realize what I’m doing and pull away. Just a little. I pull back until his eyes are in the proper place, just so I can see how he feels.
Papa looks at me for a moment, expressionless, then kisses me back. His hands clutch at my shoulders and he squeezes. He knows exactly how to unfasten my dress–not a surprise, since he made it–and slides it off me, his hands grabbing my breasts. He holds them underneath, looking at them for a while. “Just like hers,” he says, then kisses me once more.
As he kisses me, I reach down and undo his zipper. My hands move on their own, like they know exactly what to do, even though I've never been with a man before. Like I've always wanted this. He comes out, not quite as hard as I’d like, so I start stroking him vigorously. He grabs my hand, holding it firmly, and urging me to slow down. I obey, remembering how much Theresa disliked my over-enthusiasm, and even adapt a few of the techniques I used with her for his anatomy. I take him in my mouth as soon as he feels ready, and the first thing I notice is the taste on his tip. It’s saltier than I expected, but that doesn’t deter me. I remember another of Theresa’s complaints and keep my teeth out of the way.
It takes some getting used to, but before long, I find myself enjoying the presence of my father's member in my mouth. I’ve made up my mind now–I like men just as much as women. Or maybe I just love my father. We’ll see. I take in all his textures as he runs across my tongue and my lips hold him in place. He strokes my hair and ears as I suck on him, moaning approvingly. I feel him running a hand down my back and across my posterior, which he grips firmly. He slides a single finger between my cheeks and rubs at my slit. It quivers happily.
Now in nothing but my garter and stockings, I stand up, ready to remove his trousers. He sticks his legs out. I pull them off and toss them aside, standing over him, one leg on each side of his lap. Before I can sit, he grabs my hips. Curious, I allow him to do what I think he’s about to do. My guess is right. My hips and legs loosen, forcing me to grab my father's head as his tongue enters me. Theresa’s words once again burrow into my head, making me worry that he’ll give a disappointing performance, “As men usually do.” Papa's tongue gives them no quarter, drops of my pleasure rolling down his throat and washing Theresa's scorn away with them. She was wrong. Then I think of another woman who hurt me. Of all the complaints mother made about him, she never once mentioned his bedroom performance. Not that I’d have listened long if she had, as teenagers usually don’t.
His chin tucked between my thighs, Papa works his magic and brings me to the height of pleasure. My legs start to give out, so I drop to my knees, not wanting him to see me weak. I grab his member. “Now…now is the time,” I whisper. Placing him at my entrance, I slowly settle down onto him. More of Theresa's poisonous words, this time about what would happen should I ever defy her wishes and have carnal knowledge of a man, fade away as I feel that small pinch of womanly maturity that fades as quickly as it came. Her bitterness shrivels and falls from my mind, lost in a meaningless, unseen pile.
Then I ride my father. I rest my hands on his shoulders, and he puts his on my breasts. We stare into one another’s eyes. I take in his silver irises, the graying of his stubble, his hair so carefully coiffed to look as cared for as the clothes he wears each day as an advertisement for our business. Even through his sky-blue shirt, I can feel his warmth. In that moment, everything echoes through my mind: The shop he worked so hard to build and maintain to entrust to his dearest treasure; his fingers, callused from days of continually running his hands across bolts of fabric; and most of all, him, simply him, his soul wrapping itself around my heart.
On this couch, in the apartment above our struggling shop, Papa and I have become one. This man, who has always encouraged, protected, and taught me, is sharing his body with me, and I am returning all the warmth and care that he has shown me. “Papa, I…I love yooouuu!” I reach my peak, not even noticing that he’s grabbed my hips and removed himself from me. His seed expires across my belly, not entering me.
“I love you too, my precious summer Rose,” he softly incants my name.
I cannot help myself. The love in his words ties my soul to his, and I wrap my arms around his chest, put my head on his shoulder, and start weeping. Not out of sadness. Well, perhaps a little sadness. This is one thing I cannot have forever. Then I feel his neck. Its powerful muscles press into my cheek.
It would be such a quick, simple process. I need only turn my head to the side and—no. No, there are too many unknowns, and only one known: No matter the outcome to me, he would resent me for that. If we both survive, he’d have to wait that much longer to see mother; if I don’t survive, he’d be alone with both his children dead. After all, Theresa died when she did it to me. That would be even worse than what he was threatening to do, probably out of his desire to be less of a burden on his daughter--or rather, how I heard what he said. I'm not worried about it now. It takes every last mite of willpower in my body, but I manage to resist.
And still, I weep.
Papa puts his arms around my back. “There, there. I didn’t really mean what I said earlier. I’m sorry I scared you like that. I would never–”
“Please…don’t even joke about it!” I sob.
“It will happen sooner or later,” he says. “Even if it’s not by my hand, someday, I’ll meet my fate. By disease, by accident...or by time itself. You have to be ready for it.”
“I’m not,” I whisper. “I’m not ready for it. That’s why you have to hold on. Please. For my sake.” Not caring how much my tears are ruining my looks, I force him to look me in the eyes. “Promise me you’ll hold on as long as you can. And not just survive, but live.”
He kisses me warmly. “For you, I will…my treasure.”
This time, I don’t wince.
