My professor, a middle-aged woman who was totally living up to the stereotype of teacher, the dyed slightly blue-tinged grey hair in a severe bun, the...heavy duty industrial strength brassiere, the granny panties, grey skirt and jacket, frilly blouse, and three-inch patent leather pumps, she should have been in Hollywood, or maybe she had gotten her fashion sense from Hollywood or some porn movie.There was always that expectation of the gift of a bright red apple every time that I saw her – but. I knew my body was made to fit in girl clothes,after my recent venture into my mom's outfits at home. Erik stopped walking, grabbing my hand, pulling me back. "Look," he said,"I never said this stuff to anyone, never." Me either, not even my mom," I said, realizing that we had both finallyverbalized the feelings we had held most of our young lives. It was obvious that both of us, in that moment while walking home fromschool had shared a realization that had eluded us thus far, that wemight be. “Stay at a fucking hotel for all I care, or even better go stay with your mother.” My mother slammed the door to the bedroom and I knew that she was done for the night. This was the part where she would take whatever pills she had prescribed to her for bogus reasons, down a glass of scotch and pass out. It was just like every night before. I pulled open my door slowly and made my way down the stairs behind my father. He was quick to grab his coat and head for the door but I could not let him. Underneath the tree are presents. Garland is strung up and down the stairwell. Stockings are hung by the fireplace that is as cold and dark as my heart. Sitting in my favorite chair I look up on the wall to the painting we had commissioned on our eighth Wedding Anniversary, a portrait of my wife Francis holding our newborn twin daughters Alexis and Amanda. That half Mona Lisa smile haunts me. I used to tease her about it. Usually when she smiled she did it with her whole face. Her mouth would.
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