Page 25 of AMS.TER.strum

She rubs the sole of her foot absentmindedly against my thigh now, and it’s like a match against sandpaper—sparks fly. Thankfully, I don’t ignite, but it spreads all over my body, the heat of this touch boiling underneath my skin, making my fingers long for Corrie. I take her one foot, then the other, slightly lift her legs while I slide my body towards her, then lay them on my thighs and start massaging her feet.

My expertise is debatable, but from Corrie’s light sounds, it seems I’m onto something. Although now that the former semi in my jeans is a proper hard-on, sitting is somewhat uncomfortable, as trying to get up will be. But for the time being, I relish touching her, letting my mind do some roaming in forbidden areas, while Corrie is blissfully melting on the couch. My fingers seek the tired spots on her feet with the devotion of a student, determined to learn what it takes to elicit such responses.

I give her a double squeeze. ‘Shall I ditch the evening job and open a massage parlour?’

When no answer comes, I look up, and the warmth in my chest is as if I’ve downed the whole bottle, which is only a couple of fingers empty. Corrie’s head is leaning sideways against the back of the couch, her peaceful face framed by her mussed-up hair just like her daughter’s. Her feathery snore is like a cat’s purr.

I spend the next forever watching her like a creep as her chest lifts imperceptibly. When I reach for my shot, my numb body sends waves of pins and needles in a not-so-subtle nudge for me to make a move. Which means I have to decide what to do with Corrie. She’ll sleep far better in her bed, even fully dressed—not ideal, but there’s no way I’m undressing her. So, I slide away, then carry her to her bedroom, amazed that she doesn’t even stir, hoping that it’s partially because she feels safe in my presence.

Her bedroom door is opposite to the kids’, and I push it open with my shoulder to manoeuvre us inside. It takes a bit more adjusting to get her under the covers without interrupting her sleep, and when she’s finally there, my very own sleeping princess, I detach my gaze from her calm face to briefly look around the room I’ve seen only in passing the few times I’ve been here.

It’s a cocoon of Corrie and the kids with the overflow of their drawings from the fridge stuck on the wall across her bed, against which a chair has clothes draped over its back and folded on its seat. I banish the temptation to take a whiff, because I’m only that pathetic, and continue the perusal to the chest of drawers next to the chair, to the racks serving as a wardrobe where her clothes are hanging, to the fluffy grey carpet. A LEGO is patiently waiting for its victim’s foot, so I shift it.

‘Luuk?’ Corrie lets out a tiny, sexy as hell moan.

I crouch beside her bed, and my hand goes to rest on the crown of her head by its own volition. ‘Hey, Sleeping Beauty.’

Her voice is groggy, her eyes trying to focus in the almost-darkness. ‘What time is it?’

I caress her hair, telling myself I’d do the same for Ada or Otto, the lie as lame as it sounds in my brain. ‘Early in the morning. Go back to sleep.’

‘Sorry I fell asleep,’ she mumbles, but I can tell she’s already drifting again.

‘Don’t be. You were tired. I’ll go now.’

‘Stay…’

Fuck…there’s nothing I’d love more than to spoon her and fall asleep with her in my arms. But I bet it isn’t what she has in mind, no matter how tired she is. Hogging her couch will only mess with the whole family’s morning routine, and I’ll be back soon anyway.

‘Better let you rest. I’ll be back for dinner.’

I’m about to kiss her cheek when she slowly turns her face and my lips land on the corner of her mouth. My tongue screams for its tip to go for a taste, but I’m terrified of how tempted I’ll be to move further and cover her lips, so I quickly unfurl my body, wish her sweet dreams and scram. I lock the front door, put the key through the mail slot, and do the last thing I want: walk towards the Airbnb.

When I’m finally under the covers, it’s as if that offensive LEGO has sneaked in there after inviting its friends to join it. So I toss and turn like the frigging princess with the pea, while fantasizing about my own princess, sleeping not too far away, but hardly near enough.

Chapter Eleven

Corrie

‘Mama, will Luuk be here soon?’

The low voice asking and the small hand patting my head are my son’s. Just like his sister, Otto has a very precise internal alarm clock, which always goes off before Mama wakes up, no matter what time this is. Despite telling them to wait until I wake up—instead of one of them or both barging into my room, their voices waking up the whole block—the only compromise on their side is the volume. Still a win, I guess.

‘It’s still early, baby,’ I grunt.

Right when Otto mutters a disappointed ‘Okay…’ and retracts his hand, a different little finger slightly presses my fluttering eyelid. ‘Are you still sleeping? You have to wake up! You have to cook and we have to go to school. Can we skip school today?’

My little tornado has a fully charged battery first thing in the morning, which I genuinely admire and wish I could tap into. Also, I feel deep compassion and camaraderie towards my parents, for I’ve been told time and again that this is me from a few decades ago. Hard to believe, since nowadays my battery mode is half-charged at best.

‘You said we don’t sleep with our clothes on.’ Otto has pulled back the covers to supposedly help me wake up.

I rub my eyes, instantly regretting it, for I feel my hard eyelashes—which means I also slept with my makeup on and now I have smoky eyes, not the sexy kind. A quick check confirms I am indeed fully dressed, and last night’s, or rather this very early morning’s images are dragged from somewhere blurry.

Luuk coming over; he and I checking on the kids; us sitting on the couch; Luuk giving me a foot massage; me struggling to label said massage as chaste and failing miserably; me dozing off…

So him carrying me to bed wasn’t a dream! Nor was his voice in my ear; or that kiss on the corner of my mouth that still burns like a brand. Did I ask him to stay at some point? I mean, I did want him here—as in my bed—but how desperate is that? More testing of our friendship…

‘Mama, ik heb honger!’