Page 1 of Bears Behaving Badly
Chapter 1
He tells her he wants her and proves it
his hands are everywhere his hands are magic they make the world fall away
and that is just what she craves and she is desperate to do her part she is wild to make the world disappear for him
and he is easing her onto her back and filling her up with all of him and all of her knows that is fine, just fine and the only thing she wants is for this to never stop
never stop
never
oh
oh my
oh
god
“Beautiful dreamer…wake unto meeeeeee… Starlight and dewdrops…are waiting for theeeeee!”
The world was falling away—no, waswrenchedaway. And by Stephen Foster, no less. “Nnnnnfff?”
“Sounds of the rude world…heard in the day…lulled by the moonlight…have all passedawaaaaaaaay!”
“Gah.” She swiped, missed, found the thing, smacked it. Opened her eyes—and her fist—and the crushed components pattered to the carpet.Oh, hell on toast.
Annette Garsea, twenty-seven, single, IPA caseworker in need of a shower and a new alarm clock, sat up, pawed at her blankets, and finally freed her legs. She glared at the nightstand drawer, which stayed closed more often these days than her libido liked. Especially last night, when she had gotten home so tired she’d barely had time to undress before doing a belly flop onto her (unmade) bed and succumbing immediately. And even if shehadmade the time
(note: buy replacement batteries. lots.)
it wouldn’t have made much difference. She and David had just missed each other…again. And even if she’d seen him, nothing would have happened. It wouldn’t have changed anything, including the fact that her sex life was barren and mornings were…yuck. It was like thinking through honey for the first ten minutes. Which wouldn’t be so bad if there was actual honey, but she hadn’t had a chance to go grocery shopping this week. Eggs were good several days past their expiration date, right? Right.
He tells her he wants her and proves it…
From long practice, she pushed the fantasy away, stretched, yawned, padded though her messy den toward the bathroom. Showered, shampooed, watered down her conditioner again (at this point, it was water that vaguely smelled like conditioner), hopped out, toweled, ran a comb through her shaggy locks
(note: grocery shopping and conditioner and haircut)
and dressed. Black office-appropriate slacks she could stand, sit, and run in; ditto her shoes, which were plain black rubber-soled flats. Sports bra, dark-blue turtleneck. Dad’s wristwatch. Or as her partner called it, “that quaint clock you strap to your body for some reason.”
Breakfast. She loved their sun-filled kitchen, with bold, black appliances (easy cleanup) and lots of counter space (room to spread out the junk mail, tape, more mail, books, pens, junk mail), and the island, which was usually Pat’s domain for his projectde la semaine. She went straight to the fridge, took inventory of the pitiful contents, and grabbed staples. She sniffed at the eggs and, satisfied, cracked three, whisked them, added the last of the half-and-half, then swirled them into the softly bubbling butter.
“Oh,Gawd, I can’t watch.”
“So don’t.”
“And yet,” Pat whispered, round-eyed, “I cannot look away. This is what people see just before they die.”
“Stop it.” Annette added chopped onions, ham, tomatoes, and sprinkled half a cup of cheese over the glorious mess. She let it cook for a minute, then grabbed a rubber spatula and ran it around the edge, lifting the bubbling, thickening omelet up here and there so the raw eggs could run beneath. A minute later she plopped the thing on a paper plate
(note: dishwasher soap)
and sat across from Pat, who took one look at Annette’s repast
“Want some?”
