Fantasy

At home, Carl was torn between shock and confusion. Kathy? Sex? There was no claim that Barb had inferred otherwise. Barb would have taken the thoughts that were not sufficiently nailed. She couldn’t have projected teenage fantasies. She talked to Andrea and Kathy wouldn’t lie to her best friend. Barb had spoken with the knowledge that such things happen. Why shoot the messenger?

Fathers can’t think of their child, can they? It’s not natural. Maybe it’s biologically natural, but it’s not supposed to happen. It’s not fair! Everyone knows that. It’s wrong to make love together. Sex is something…

Like Barb’s work, the girls called him “Coach.” Carl was his assistant and the girls called him “Carl.” Barb knew soccer, knew how to make their butt work and love him. Barb could drop a corner at 5 feet from the net. Carl was not particularly athletic, but was happy to trotter, the promoter. “Nice pass, Heather. Look at the offspring, though.”

On the ground, Barb was also “Coach” in Carl. “You bet, Coach,” he would confirm that he drilled his band on the crossovers. “Not until you see the ball in the air!” said with certainty. He hoped the girls knew him himself. Barb, the ponytail pushed his cork back, gave him an inch.