Dirty Bad Wrong - Breakfast Conversations

With Dawn sitting at the small dining table, sipping at a glass of orange juice out of a fridge that thankfully hadn't gotten too warm before the power had been restored-- only about an hour or so earlier, judging by the kitchen clock. As would be expected, Dawn had arrived exactly on a night before I was planning to go grocery shopping, and so the pickings were a bit slim.

Finally, I fished a carton of eggs, a few random almost-leftover vegetables, and a small wedge of good sharp Cheddar cheese from the local British food shop.

"I do hope you like omelettes," I said, before warming up the range. I set the pan on the burner to heat up, and I cracked two eggs into a bowl with some salt and pepper.

I began to beat the eggs, then paused. As pleasant as this domestic scene was, there were some certain things that needed doing. I set down the bowl and picked up the cordless phone. Checking it for a dial tone-- which it had-- I set it on the dining table in front of Dawn.

"It'll be all right, Dawn. Just, ah, keep your fingers crossed."

Returning to my cooking, I dropped the last two pieces of bread-- the ends-- into the toaster, then resumed preparing the first omelette.

As I listened to Dawn dial, and then to her end of the conversation, I found myself deciding that it really wouldn't be all that bad having someone around who wasn't a superhero, a seer, or a very handsome street fighter. And of course, it was always nice to have someone else to share the joy that is research.

And if a change of locale was what Dawn needed for a little while in order to better handle this terribly difficult time in her young life? Then that was also a good thing. I hoped.

Slicing a few vegetables and letting them sizzle in the olive oil, I waited for the verdict.

((Open to Dawn))

Dirty Bad Wrong - Wesbert Wesbert

I'd had the presence of mind to stuff an oversized garbage bag into my pocket just before braving the deluge on the way to the market, which was three blocks away. Driving would have been all but suicide, considering the behaviour of most Angelenos during rainstorms, and so I was forced to walk. I was in great fortune, it seemed, as the proprietor of the market decided to close up shop immediately after I left.

And so, I trudged back, a great heavy sack over my shoulder like some sort of demented Father Christmas. The slow going, though, did give me time to consider my current domestic predicament.

I couldn't avoid the idea any more, and the one good thing about a cold rain was that it cleared my mind enough to be more objective about it-- I was finding myself mightily attracted to Dawn, and not entirely in a romantic way. I wasn't unaware that my own 'type' had a tendency to skew toward the youthful, slim and girlish; from my ill-advised infatuation with Cordelia, to Virginia's ample, but still very coquettish charms, even to my occasional glances at our new hotel denizen, Fred.

But now, with Dawn's entirely innocent exuberance translating into feelings of arousal on my part? It was totally unacceptable, and I needed to put a stop to such Humbert Humbert-ian wanderings of my attentions.

By the time I reached my own door, I was certain I'd contracted pneumonia. I'd put my glasses well inside my jacket before leaving the store, so I was effectively blind when I finally entered my apartment, lowering the sack to the floor and beginning to shrug off boots and jacket. I could hear some sort of dialogue in the background-- Dawn must have appropriated some film to watch-- and could see the hazy shape of her a few feet away.

Fishing inside my jacket, I turned and put my glasses back on.

I blinked once, twice.

Dawn stood before me in a cacophanous combining of images and details that obliterated all but my very last bits of resolve that I'd gained during my sojourn outside. One of my dress shirts hung loosely off her slender frame, its tailoring forcing it to fall and tent at strategically intriguing locations, the tail stopping just at the top third of her pale, narrow thighs. Specks of white, the remainders of what must have been an ice cream snack, along with one long smear of the stuff decorated her mouth, and with a flick of her tongue, she swiped a bit of it away.

The noise from the television became sounds, words. The words became a recognizable voice: James Mason.

Having recently arrived in America where so many Europeans have found a haven before, I decided to spend a peaceful summer in the attractive resort town of Ramsdale, New Hampshire...

Of course. Lolita. The universe's message, though incomprehensible in its motivations, was crystal clear in its intentions.

"Hey. Miss me?"

I smiled at Dawn, and if I could see into a mirror, I would have noticed a surprising predatory undertone to it.

"Desperately," I replied.

Ignoring for the moment, the soaking wet clothes I was stil clad in, I crossed the floor to Dawn in damp socks and reached out a finger, scraping it lightly on her lower lip.

"You missed some," was the whisper, and before she could answer, I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers. I held there for the space of a heartbeat, or two.

I pulled back, but not without a little regret. My head spun as all my better angels railed against what I'd just done, and forced me to step away.

"Make sure... make sure you save something for me when I'm done with a shower, please."

((Part of this thread))