Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 37.1: 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 Twenty-Three
Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing.
Caramel Kisses: Chapter Twenty-Three
by Belinda Roddie
I started attending grad school a month before my twenty-fourth birthday. Emma and I had moved into a bigger apartment in Petaluma after I had worked long summer nights for my teaching credential, so I could take classes during the day and teach similar classes at night. And with that, my schedule became more hectic, but my income had doubled and I had weekends to spare with my wife, my lovely wife, planning that bakery while an enormous Milo pawed at the cake batter she was mixing into froth in that beaten down steel bowl.
I was married, a husband without the stubble or the needed manliness, and I was happy to be so. The routine had only slightly altered, and while the both of us still thought about family and childen, we had not talked about it as often over the following months together. It was as if we were going through a recovery stage, after the flowery prayers and vows that tugged at heartstrings and made my mom sob at the pew. Though I often joked with Emma about the idea that she was most likely crying for one of two reasons: One, that I couldn’t have worn a dress like a normal girl, or come to think of it, married a man, for God’s sake; or two, the fact that I had proven her wrong about having to be thirty-five to get married confidently. Emma would laugh each time I mentioned it, but then she’d arch an eyebrow at me as if saying, well, could be so, my dear.
Yes, while our routines may have been slowly changing, by God, were they so much the same. I still found time to write, in between studying and lecturing tired-looking students whose wealthy parents had shipped them off to the private school that had so kindly made me an English teacher. I found time to sit on the couch with Emma, watching TV, before jumping up and swooping her into my arms and carrying her to the car for an impromptu trip to the city that had brought us together. And I always found the time to dance with her, playing the music on the stereo, letting our shoes scuff up the kitchen floor as I attempted to serenade Emma over her cooking as she poured cupcake batter into a pan.
I’ll spare you the singing, I’d say to her, and pick up a guitar. I’ll compose a little three-chord song with your name being the title because there totally aren’t about fifty other songs titled after women, but hey, I could be the first to write a song called “Emma.” And she’d laugh and drag me with her to the oven as I kept my arms locked around her bosom, turning the temperature dials with hearty click and brushing the flour off her fingers onto her apron and jeans. I’m going to hold you to that, she’d tease me, as the heat of the oven danced across our faces. You better write me that song.
I never did write Emma that song. I almost regretted not doing so, but again, I couldn’t write music and I certainly couldn’t write lyrics to a love song that didn’t sound remarkably redundant or like an eighties or nineties pop ballad. Still, I attempted to make up for it, in my presence around her and in my work, reminding her that I was a teacher now and I was bringing home the bacon. Except I didn’t say it like that because that also was cliché and Emma didn’t deserve cliché. No acceptable wife deserved that sort of treatment. So I just decided to remind her with a paycheck and a kiss full on the lips, and I remembered the day I shouted, “Honey, I’m hooo-ooome!” to her, and I grinned at the fact that I was certainly fitting into that role.
I couldn’t deny that I loved playing that role; it was a part of my life. Hell, it was a part of me. And I loved it. And I also hoped with all my heart that Emma loved it, too.
I started attending grad school a month before my twenty-fourth birthday. Emma and I had moved into a bigger apartment in Petaluma after I had worked long summer nights for my teaching credential, so I could take classes during the day and teach similar classes at night. And with that, my schedule became more hectic, but my income had doubled and I had weekends to spare with my wife, my lovely wife, planning that bakery while an enormous Milo pawed at the cake batter she was mixing into froth in that beaten down steel bowl.
I was married, a husband without the stubble or the needed manliness, and I was happy to be so. The routine had only slightly altered, and while the both of us still thought about family and childen, we had not talked about it as often over the following months together. It was as if we were going through a recovery stage, after the flowery prayers and vows that tugged at heartstrings and made my mom sob at the pew. Though I often joked with Emma about the idea that she was most likely crying for one of two reasons: One, that I couldn’t have worn a dress like a normal girl, or come to think of it, married a man, for God’s sake; or two, the fact that I had proven her wrong about having to be thirty-five to get married confidently. Emma would laugh each time I mentioned it, but then she’d arch an eyebrow at me as if saying, well, could be so, my dear.
Yes, while our routines may have been slowly changing, by God, were they so much the same. I still found time to write, in between studying and lecturing tired-looking students whose wealthy parents had shipped them off to the private school that had so kindly made me an English teacher. I found time to sit on the couch with Emma, watching TV, before jumping up and swooping her into my arms and carrying her to the car for an impromptu trip to the city that had brought us together. And I always found the time to dance with her, playing the music on the stereo, letting our shoes scuff up the kitchen floor as I attempted to serenade Emma over her cooking as she poured cupcake batter into a pan.
I’ll spare you the singing, I’d say to her, and pick up a guitar. I’ll compose a little three-chord song with your name being the title because there totally aren’t about fifty other songs titled after women, but hey, I could be the first to write a song called “Emma.” And she’d laugh and drag me with her to the oven as I kept my arms locked around her bosom, turning the temperature dials with hearty click and brushing the flour off her fingers onto her apron and jeans. I’m going to hold you to that, she’d tease me, as the heat of the oven danced across our faces. You better write me that song.
I never did write Emma that song. I almost regretted not doing so, but again, I couldn’t write music and I certainly couldn’t write lyrics to a love song that didn’t sound remarkably redundant or like an eighties or nineties pop ballad. Still, I attempted to make up for it, in my presence around her and in my work, reminding her that I was a teacher now and I was bringing home the bacon. Except I didn’t say it like that because that also was cliché and Emma didn’t deserve cliché. No acceptable wife deserved that sort of treatment. So I just decided to remind her with a paycheck and a kiss full on the lips, and I remembered the day I shouted, “Honey, I’m hooo-ooome!” to her, and I grinned at the fact that I was certainly fitting into that role.
I couldn’t deny that I loved playing that role; it was a part of my life. Hell, it was a part of me. And I loved it. And I also hoped with all my heart that Emma loved it, too.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 9th, 2010.
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