It wasn’t my wife, it was Rachel, my daughter. She turned around when she didn’t get a response, and I was thrown back twenty years. Rachel had grown to look exactly like her mother. I was suddenly eighteen again and arriving for my first date with the beautiful rich girl I met while slinging overpriced pastrami on rye to the rich and famous.“Well, well, well, The great naval hero! He gets medals from the President but doesn’t send a fucking postcard to his family. What are you doing here?” she hissed at me, her eyes narrowing in anger, her lips curling in disgust. “I thought mom dying was the worst thing to ever happen in my life, now you,” she snarled that word, “decide to show up after seven fucking years. Get the fuck out! I never want to see you again!”“But Ray-Ray ... Ray-Ray... , “ I said in shock at her reaction.“DON’T CALL ME THAT! MY DADDY called me that. My daddy who always came home. My daddy who sent me gifts and letters from every port he visited. My daddy who called. How you snuck in later, after I’d already gone up, and we’d felt so tense. Boy, we sure fooled the world, huh? Yeah, but I think we felt like kids pretending to be grown-ups, don’t you? I think I remember best when you sat on the edge of the bed and took your sweater off, how my lower lip startled to tremble when I saw your white skin in the dim light of that room. The white bra you wore, oh my God, how I wanted you. I watched you as your little skirt dropped to the floor, how you flipped your shoes off and left your tights on because the room was a little cold, isn’t that what you said? I remember how silly-shy I felt as you asked me to come and lie down next to you, how I wanted to crack a joke or something to just relieve the tension. ‘But I remember how you guided me. How you guided me into your embrace, guided my hand to the outside of your panties. How I could rub and feel your silky hair under the clean white cotton between your legs, and how you moaned as I discovered the.
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