Making out with mommy on the sofa, whining into her mouth as she presses her full weight against you. You’ve had a nice night together watching a film, but the wine you insisted on having has gone to your head… and elsewhere. Which she SAID it would, but you insisted. And now it’s backfired. You wriggle under her, trying to use your words, but it’s hard when her tongue is in your mouth and she’s got a hand under your jumper groping your tits so that your ‘no’s are nothing more than soft pants and bleats. Eventually you peel away, only a string of spittle on your pouted lips.
She looks down at you, tilting her head. She’s got this weird way of looking at you that makes you feel so small. You don’t meet her gaze and stammer out, “bathroom”, hoping that’ll be enough to seal the deal. She huffs out a giggle. “That’s funny,” she says like you’re a child, winding a strand of hair behind one ear, “Only I thought I heard you say ‘bathroom’.”
You nod quickly, trying to push off of her, but she’s still on top of you, pressing you deeper into the soft sofa cushions. You whimper. Perhaps you were too vague; perhaps ‘every time you kiss me I start leaking’ would suit. Mommy is very house proud and, to the best of your knowledge, doesn’t like big messes. There’s a moment where you think she’s thinking this through. Looking at the white throw laid out over the sofa. You realise, slightly too late, that she’s looking instead at the way your thighs are trembling.
She leans in again. She smells of that perfume you like, floral and candy, and it’s all you can register even as she drops her voice to its most syrupy register; “I wonder what would happen if…?”
The sentence dangles; then she brings her knee quickly up between your legs. You squeal at the surprise attack as all of the wine sprays out of you in this hot hissing rush, gushing against your sweats, the white throw, and dampening Mommy’s bare legs. Your baby mouth shapes ‘N’ for ‘no-o-o!’, but then Mommy’s lips are on yours and she’s grinding against you once more, dragging the warm wetness of your accident everywhere. She’s making these tight hitched noises. So are you, but you realise a little later that your cheeks are wet. There’s tears running down them.
“Oh, oh baby.” Mommy stills, stroking away a tear with the pad of a thumb. “What’s wrong?”
Your chest heaves. “Accident,” you stammer.
“An accident. I know. It was that wine.” She clicks her tongue. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
She lifts herself up elegantly, offering her hand for you to take. She’s wearing a thin white cotton sundress and you can see little tide marks where the material has sopped up your pee. As opposed to the fluffy sweatpants you’re wearing which are sodden and discoloured. You let her lead you, but your lip is quivering and catches on your teeth. “We didn’t… you didn’t…” your chest squeezes with embarrassment. Having to stop what was supposed to be a special night to clean up after an accident is a bit of a mood killer, you suppose.
“I told you not to drink that wine. Mommy knows best.” Mommy says, chiding. You snivel.
After a change, which involves substantially more padding on your bottom than you began the evening with, then running the laundry and choosing a book, you settle in the big bed instead, in Mommy’s lap. You’re reading Where The Crawdads Sing: sure, you’re reading the same paragraph over and over until your eyes blur, but it’s still reading.
“You’re not really reading that book.”
“I am.” You hunch over, looking closer at the words.
“That’s too big for you.”
Rolling her eyes, Mommy gets out of bed and goes to your bookcase. “Here.” She drops a book on your lap and it flaps open. It’s Duck in the Truck.
You look at her. She looks at you.
“This is the Duck, driving home in his truck.” You warble foolishly. You can feel Mommy watching you approvingly. Whenever you read with Mommy she is always poised to correct your pronunciation or elocution and it makes you slip up on even the most basic of words. It makes you feel so babyish.
“Clever girl,” she praises, in a way that makes you feel indignant. But there’s something so nice about being praised for something so simple. You think you carry on reading, but your mouth feels heavy and so do your eyes. The last thing you remember is Mommy taking the book from your hands and snuggling down against her soft chest as you go to sleep.
