Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 22.1: May 9th, 2010
"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Eight
by Belinda Roddie
By the time Emma sauntered into the kitchen, I was making breakfast. It wasn’t much, just pancakes browning on the stove, my hand twitching noticeably as I worked to flip them. I looked at her and she smiled, her eyes heavy with sleep but still unbelievably bright and warm to look at. She breathed deeply, sampling the smell of cheap, makeshift pancake batter, and seemed satisfied.
“Morning, Emma,” I said, and my cheeks grew warm as she fastened herself to my stationary arm that held the pan in place and buried her face into my shoulder. I set down the spatula and lifted her chin with two fingers, in order to give her a wake-up kiss to the forehead. Emma rolled her eyes at this, locked her lips with mine and held them there until I gestured a warning that our breakfast could be put in danger by our sleepy passion.
“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, and I started stacking a plate high with pancakes, brown and crisp just the way my grandfather always made them.
“Mom and Dad are on their usual Sunday coffee trip with friends,” I replied as I lifted a full measuring cup out of the fridge. “Emilio…well, he never really functions outside of sleep until the evening. How do you like your syrup?’
“What?”
“Warm or cold?”
“Oh. Cold’s fine.”
I tossed four small cakes onto her plate, the syrup a light drizzle on the top. She took the cup and doused her food further with the stuff, and the maple smell overpowered me and I couldn’t help but laugh. Emma was like me when it came to maple syrup, and that was if we didn’t have enough left over on the plate to slurp up with a spoon, then we hadn’t had enough. We ate quickly, our forks clattering against our plates, washing down the sticky clumps with milk and grinning the whole way through it. I gave Emma a quizzical expression in order to receive an opinion of my cooking, and she laughed and gave me a thumbs-up through a mouthful of pancakes.
We didn’t talk much through breakfast, and in truth, we didn’t really need to. There was an energy in how we shifted in our chairs, how we raised our forks in synchronization, the rhythm of steel against porcelain rattling us but keeping us alert. It was clear that last night had exhausted us; now we had to take things slower. Too much at once and we’d fizzle out, like too much wind against the melting wax of a candle, its thinning spiral wick fighting to hold hot breath.
When I cleared the dishes, I felt Emma’s breath against my neck and the follicles of my hair bristled and lost their fuzz. She drew her arms around my chest as I stood over the sink, one wrist to each shoulder blade, both hands clasped around my collarbone. I pulled a hand from the soapy water where I had set the plates and touched her knuckles with cold fingers, and she yelped and I laughed. I gave her two kisses after that, one for tolerating that little antic and another just because.
We walked out of the house holding hands, straining our eyes to see if perhaps my parents would return sooner than I imagined. They already knew how I felt sexually, but this was another hurdle that I didn’t want to jump over just yet. It all had to do with their cynicism and their oh-so-down-to-earth commentary and just the simple fact that I was falling in love at the age of twenty-two. Now the February cold was biting at my nose and cheeks and I felt my chest swell up with happiness and pride, like I was saying, I told you so. Look at me, Mom and Dad. I told you so.
I decided to take Emma to Pioneer Park because it was still early that Sunday morning and the multitudes of families and children hadn’t scampered their way to the place yet, especially due to the weather. It was perfect when we arrived, vacant and open save for the middle-aged men playing tennis on the gray courts. Emma gasped in delight at seeing the playground empty. It was all for us, all for the taking, and we skipped across the tanbark toward the plastic kingdom like we were fifteen years younger than we really were. She pulled herself onto a swing, the wind making her coat sleeves billow out like she was wearing an Elven gown.
“Push me, Adriana!” she called out to me. “Come on, push me!”
I felt my hands against her back and my heart squeezed between my ribs as I felt my adrenaline rush through me. Emma squealed each time she was up in the air and giggled as she came down to meet me, making contact with my hands and eyes. She tried to kiss me while in mid-swing but pecked me on the nose instead, and I didn’t mind because the way she was swept up into the air, her whitening fingers clasping the chains as they creaked when meeting the sky, was enough for me.
I took a break from pushing Emma to jump onto the swing next to her, and it all became a sort of childish competition to see who could go the highest on the swings. I felt the muscles in my legs burn, a welcoming heat despite the soreness in my thighs, and I felt so young again, so innocent. Emma, only here could I have you. Only here, in this beautiful northern sky, could I truly have you, and I never wanted to leave. It was beautiful up north, settling, with the lukewarm air between us. I didn’t want it any other way but this.
We stopped swinging and collapsed onto the nearest bench, gathering our breath and our hands into a small pile. Our fingers crisscrossed as we knit ourselves together, bundled up with the vapors from our mouths hovering around our faces. Some older couples were passing by, a cluster of little dogs swarming them and yapping and biting at their ankles. They walked slowly, hunched over, as if the weight of their sweaters and jackets were attempting to make their knees give out from under them. But those couples also were holding hands and I felt warm in and out from seeing that, despite those yappy bastards turning to snarl at me only to get a cheery grin from the lovely girl beside me.
I got a strange, disapproving glance from one older woman full in the face, and I gritted my teeth and shook it off, but there was a loosening in my fingers and I turned to see that Emma had gotten the same silent strike to her conscience.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to act like we weren’t feeling the same thing.
“They were staring at us.”
I shrugged, an indifferent gesture, a see-through performance. “Comes with the package, I guess.”
Emma didn’t believe my apathy. She prodded me. Her eyes were frosting over. “Did you hear what that woman said?”
“She said something?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it…?”
“Please don’t make me repeat it,” Emma begged.
I paused, my breaths long but shallow. “No. I didn’t hear it.” And I wasn’t lying. I was glad I hadn’t heard it. Given my past experiences, it was probably something I had heard directed at me before, more than once.
Emma fell silent after that. I tightened my grip on her hands as if to reassure her, and it did some good because she reciprocated the gesture, locking onto me and pressing up beside me as if to forget about it. Forget about it, Emma. It doesn’t matter. This is what we have to expect. It doesn’t matter.
“Let’s go on the swings again,” I said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“I’m fine,” Emma said.
But we went back on the swings anyway, trying to get the same enjoyment out of it like we had earlier. But we were worn out and our legs weren’t cooperating, and some kids who had just arrived at the playground were looking at us oddly and we exchanged looks before leaving our fingerprints to frost on the chains. We walked back to my house at a slower pace, still holding hands. Emma kept her eyes on me, silent, as if she were too scared to feel another person’s stare on her or hear another snide or disapproving remark. I breathed deeply and blinked the tension away from my eyes. At least her gaze was on me alone, and that was comforting.
February was the cruelest month, not April. The fact that we fell in love after Valentine’s Day, the fact that our first kiss was with the cold air filtered through the window, clawed at us and left us with the imprint of a real world, of a frosty, frigid world. I felt the wind tackle me and I wrapped my arms around Emma’s shoulders, her hip against mine, two swollen hearts pulsing and throbbing in unison.
It was outside my house, with the trees exposing their long bony fingers over us as I held Emma close to me, that I had a chance to look at her face again. It was pink and flushed as we crossed the sidewalk toward the porch, and with each step we took her face seemed to grow darker. All the obstacles of the world seemed to pierce into her and shake her up from the inside out. I stopped to look at her more closely.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
It was as if a storm brewed behind Emma’s gaze, and I saw the watery film around her eyes, melting in the sudden heat between us. And that’s when I knew the glances and the words had finally gotten to her and I wound my arms around her and drew her to my breast. I let her cry until she ran out of breath on that chilly winter day, the cruelness of the wind pushing us together and refusing to let up.
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Eight
by Belinda Roddie
By the time Emma sauntered into the kitchen, I was making breakfast. It wasn’t much, just pancakes browning on the stove, my hand twitching noticeably as I worked to flip them. I looked at her and she smiled, her eyes heavy with sleep but still unbelievably bright and warm to look at. She breathed deeply, sampling the smell of cheap, makeshift pancake batter, and seemed satisfied.
“Morning, Emma,” I said, and my cheeks grew warm as she fastened herself to my stationary arm that held the pan in place and buried her face into my shoulder. I set down the spatula and lifted her chin with two fingers, in order to give her a wake-up kiss to the forehead. Emma rolled her eyes at this, locked her lips with mine and held them there until I gestured a warning that our breakfast could be put in danger by our sleepy passion.
“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, and I started stacking a plate high with pancakes, brown and crisp just the way my grandfather always made them.
“Mom and Dad are on their usual Sunday coffee trip with friends,” I replied as I lifted a full measuring cup out of the fridge. “Emilio…well, he never really functions outside of sleep until the evening. How do you like your syrup?’
“What?”
“Warm or cold?”
“Oh. Cold’s fine.”
I tossed four small cakes onto her plate, the syrup a light drizzle on the top. She took the cup and doused her food further with the stuff, and the maple smell overpowered me and I couldn’t help but laugh. Emma was like me when it came to maple syrup, and that was if we didn’t have enough left over on the plate to slurp up with a spoon, then we hadn’t had enough. We ate quickly, our forks clattering against our plates, washing down the sticky clumps with milk and grinning the whole way through it. I gave Emma a quizzical expression in order to receive an opinion of my cooking, and she laughed and gave me a thumbs-up through a mouthful of pancakes.
We didn’t talk much through breakfast, and in truth, we didn’t really need to. There was an energy in how we shifted in our chairs, how we raised our forks in synchronization, the rhythm of steel against porcelain rattling us but keeping us alert. It was clear that last night had exhausted us; now we had to take things slower. Too much at once and we’d fizzle out, like too much wind against the melting wax of a candle, its thinning spiral wick fighting to hold hot breath.
When I cleared the dishes, I felt Emma’s breath against my neck and the follicles of my hair bristled and lost their fuzz. She drew her arms around my chest as I stood over the sink, one wrist to each shoulder blade, both hands clasped around my collarbone. I pulled a hand from the soapy water where I had set the plates and touched her knuckles with cold fingers, and she yelped and I laughed. I gave her two kisses after that, one for tolerating that little antic and another just because.
We walked out of the house holding hands, straining our eyes to see if perhaps my parents would return sooner than I imagined. They already knew how I felt sexually, but this was another hurdle that I didn’t want to jump over just yet. It all had to do with their cynicism and their oh-so-down-to-earth commentary and just the simple fact that I was falling in love at the age of twenty-two. Now the February cold was biting at my nose and cheeks and I felt my chest swell up with happiness and pride, like I was saying, I told you so. Look at me, Mom and Dad. I told you so.
I decided to take Emma to Pioneer Park because it was still early that Sunday morning and the multitudes of families and children hadn’t scampered their way to the place yet, especially due to the weather. It was perfect when we arrived, vacant and open save for the middle-aged men playing tennis on the gray courts. Emma gasped in delight at seeing the playground empty. It was all for us, all for the taking, and we skipped across the tanbark toward the plastic kingdom like we were fifteen years younger than we really were. She pulled herself onto a swing, the wind making her coat sleeves billow out like she was wearing an Elven gown.
“Push me, Adriana!” she called out to me. “Come on, push me!”
I felt my hands against her back and my heart squeezed between my ribs as I felt my adrenaline rush through me. Emma squealed each time she was up in the air and giggled as she came down to meet me, making contact with my hands and eyes. She tried to kiss me while in mid-swing but pecked me on the nose instead, and I didn’t mind because the way she was swept up into the air, her whitening fingers clasping the chains as they creaked when meeting the sky, was enough for me.
I took a break from pushing Emma to jump onto the swing next to her, and it all became a sort of childish competition to see who could go the highest on the swings. I felt the muscles in my legs burn, a welcoming heat despite the soreness in my thighs, and I felt so young again, so innocent. Emma, only here could I have you. Only here, in this beautiful northern sky, could I truly have you, and I never wanted to leave. It was beautiful up north, settling, with the lukewarm air between us. I didn’t want it any other way but this.
We stopped swinging and collapsed onto the nearest bench, gathering our breath and our hands into a small pile. Our fingers crisscrossed as we knit ourselves together, bundled up with the vapors from our mouths hovering around our faces. Some older couples were passing by, a cluster of little dogs swarming them and yapping and biting at their ankles. They walked slowly, hunched over, as if the weight of their sweaters and jackets were attempting to make their knees give out from under them. But those couples also were holding hands and I felt warm in and out from seeing that, despite those yappy bastards turning to snarl at me only to get a cheery grin from the lovely girl beside me.
I got a strange, disapproving glance from one older woman full in the face, and I gritted my teeth and shook it off, but there was a loosening in my fingers and I turned to see that Emma had gotten the same silent strike to her conscience.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to act like we weren’t feeling the same thing.
“They were staring at us.”
I shrugged, an indifferent gesture, a see-through performance. “Comes with the package, I guess.”
Emma didn’t believe my apathy. She prodded me. Her eyes were frosting over. “Did you hear what that woman said?”
“She said something?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it…?”
“Please don’t make me repeat it,” Emma begged.
I paused, my breaths long but shallow. “No. I didn’t hear it.” And I wasn’t lying. I was glad I hadn’t heard it. Given my past experiences, it was probably something I had heard directed at me before, more than once.
Emma fell silent after that. I tightened my grip on her hands as if to reassure her, and it did some good because she reciprocated the gesture, locking onto me and pressing up beside me as if to forget about it. Forget about it, Emma. It doesn’t matter. This is what we have to expect. It doesn’t matter.
“Let’s go on the swings again,” I said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“I’m fine,” Emma said.
But we went back on the swings anyway, trying to get the same enjoyment out of it like we had earlier. But we were worn out and our legs weren’t cooperating, and some kids who had just arrived at the playground were looking at us oddly and we exchanged looks before leaving our fingerprints to frost on the chains. We walked back to my house at a slower pace, still holding hands. Emma kept her eyes on me, silent, as if she were too scared to feel another person’s stare on her or hear another snide or disapproving remark. I breathed deeply and blinked the tension away from my eyes. At least her gaze was on me alone, and that was comforting.
February was the cruelest month, not April. The fact that we fell in love after Valentine’s Day, the fact that our first kiss was with the cold air filtered through the window, clawed at us and left us with the imprint of a real world, of a frosty, frigid world. I felt the wind tackle me and I wrapped my arms around Emma’s shoulders, her hip against mine, two swollen hearts pulsing and throbbing in unison.
It was outside my house, with the trees exposing their long bony fingers over us as I held Emma close to me, that I had a chance to look at her face again. It was pink and flushed as we crossed the sidewalk toward the porch, and with each step we took her face seemed to grow darker. All the obstacles of the world seemed to pierce into her and shake her up from the inside out. I stopped to look at her more closely.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
It was as if a storm brewed behind Emma’s gaze, and I saw the watery film around her eyes, melting in the sudden heat between us. And that’s when I knew the glances and the words had finally gotten to her and I wound my arms around her and drew her to my breast. I let her cry until she ran out of breath on that chilly winter day, the cruelness of the wind pushing us together and refusing to let up.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 9th, 2010.
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