Chapter 11

What had taken him hours to pen by hand, practically flew onto the screen of the computer. He had not forgotten how to type and he was good at it. Lou Anne was moving back and forth, just going about her daily routine, and stopped several times to watch.

"I must agree that you're an author," she said at one point. "Or a professional typist of some kind. You're as fast as I am."

"Umm," was his only response. He was intent on the screen. He never looked at his fingers.

Then, quite suddenly, the tapping of keys stopped. Lou Anne was giving Ambrose his evening snack, just before bedtime. She had him sleep before taking him to the sitter's, because that made it easier for him to go back to sleep when he got there. He was hard to wake up. She usually just dressed him in his flannel pajamas and put a coat on his sleepy form when she took him to Roslynn's.

When, as she came out of Ambrose's room, she still didn't hear the keyboard, she went to investigate. She found Kris sitting, slumped over, staring at the screen.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"That's all I can do," he said, sounding irritated.

"Why?"

"Because that's all I remember," he said. "My whole life ... or at least the parts I can remember ... fits on five pages."

"Make it up from there," suggested Lou Anne.

"No. This has the potential to be very interesting, but it needs to be accurate. This isn't the fictional account of some character. This is what actually happened to me and how it affected my life. I'll just have to wait and add to it as things happen."

"Kind of like a journal," said Lou Anne.

"No, not a journal," he said, shaking his head. "The past and present will all be intertwined, eventually. I can feel it."

"OK, then," said Lou Anne. "Write something else that IS fiction."

"Like what?" he asked, helplessly.

"We talked about a romance novel," she said.

"I can't write that kind of thing," said Kris.

"How do you know?"

"Because I can't think of anything romantic," he sighed.

"I could help."

He turned and looked at her. He couldn't get over how normal she sounded, and how normal she was in his mind when he thought about her, and how bizarre she looked in comparison to that.

"What turns you on?" she asked.

"You mean sexually?"

She giggled. "Well duh. What did you think I meant?"

He stared at her. "I can't just tell you that kind of stuff."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd get all embarrassed. You're a girl!"

"I'm a woman, big boy," she said, exaggerating the vampish voice she used. "I'm a woman who gets all wiggly when I read a good romance novel. Sometimes I have to rub, if it's really good."

"I can't believe you said that," he said weakly.

"We're both adults here. Sex isn't dirty." She stopped and tilted her head. "Well, SOME sex is a little dirty. Sometimes that's my favorite kind."

He started to speak, but cut it off.

Lou Anne smiled. "You were about to ask me what kind of slightly dirty sex I like ... weren't you." She made it a statement, rather than a question. "See? Sex is interesting. And if you think about it like that, I'm sure you can write something ... interesting." She tilted her head the other way and her hair moved, to expose bald scalp. "So ... do you want to know what turns ME on?"

"I can't ask that," he moaned.

"I thought we already discussed this," she said. "Come on. I'll tell you something that gets me going, then you tell me something that gets you going."

He looked distinctly uncomfortable. His natural modesty was still holding him back.

"You're sure you want to do this?" he asked.

She ignored the question.

"I like what I call nipple love," she said. "My nipples are very sensitive, and I love it when a man sucks on them and plays with them."

His eyes just naturally dropped to where her breasts pushed against the T shirt she was wearing. They widened as he saw her nipples push the cloth out. It was like magic. She talked about them ... and they appeared. He jerked his eyes back up. She was watching him. She knew what he had just been looking at.

"Sorry," he said.

She smiled. "I was talking about them. I can't blame you for looking. Now you."

"I can't think of anything," he mumbled.

"Yes you can. Be right back. You think about it while I'm gone."

He watched her walk away and his eyes followed the rise and fall of her buttocks. She was barefoot, but her cheeks still lifted a couple of inches with each step she took. He realized she had a really nice ass.

The epiphany he had at that moment almost made him fall out of the chair. He looked down and saw the visual evidence of what he had felt. His dick was getting hard. Looking at her ass had made him start to get an erection. It had been just that easy to think of something that turned him on.

"I'm an ass man," he said, wonderingly, to himself.

"What?"

He looked up to see Lou Anne coming back into the room. He watched her breasts, which bounced just a little as she walked. She was carrying a magazine.

"I'm an ass man," he said again. It had just been an automatic response to her question and he wished he hadn't said it instantly.

"Really?" She smiled. "I have a nice ass."

"Yes you do," he said. He almost put his hand over his mouth. Where had that come from? He didn't talk to women that way ... did he?

"Well thank you!" she said, her voice rising.

"Wait a minute," he said, holding his hand up. "That didn't make you mad, did it?"

"Nope."

"Why not?" He frowned. "I don't have any specific memories of it, but I know you're not supposed to talk to women like that."

"Well, if it hadn't been the right man, I might have gotten irritated," she admitted.

"Why am I the right man?"

"'Cause I like you."

"Why? All I've been is a pain in the ass to you."

"I don't know." She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose you have been a bit of a bother. But at the same time you really broke up the routine ... the monotony. You're a nice guy. You're certainly not pushy. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"I thought you were afraid I was a gangster."

"Not anymore. I've spent some time with you now. I can tell you're no criminal."

His mind went back to hitting that man and then driving off. He wished, suddenly, that he knew whether or not he'd been punished for doing that. If he had been ... fine. It was over and he couldn't remember the punishment. If not, though ... he felt bad. It then occurred to him that if he WAS a criminal type ... he probably wouldn't feel bad. He looked at her again. She was just standing there, like she was waiting for him to say something.

"OK. I'm not a criminal. And I get to say I like your ass ... right?"

"Under the right circumstances," she said.

"What does THAT mean?" he moaned. "I think I need some kind of rules here."

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For Want of a Memory

Lubrican

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