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From: "E. Z. Riter" <ezriter@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {EZ}{rp} Doors (Romance)
Date: Fri, 11 Jul 2003 03:10:09 -0400
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The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for adults in
locations where it is legal. If it is illegal in your location, DO NOT read.
This is a copyrighted work. Reposting or any other use strictly prohibited
without the express, written permission of the copyright holder, except may
be posted as part of a  review or posted to free-access, noncommercial
archive sites.

Copyright 2000, 2003 by E. Z. Riter.

E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

Please! Give me your comments!

Dear Readers, This is a romance and doesn't contain sex. Thanks to Gail for
editing and assistance. Enjoy.  E.Z.



DOORS

I opened the door to find Carla at thirteen. Big blue eyes with long lashes.
Overpowering eyes. Gangly, coltish, flat chested, and hipless. Long,
straight brown hair. Lips of brown from a Fudgcicle she sucked innocently.

"I'm Carla. You're Bill, Bessie's grandson who lives here now. You're
twenty-six and working on your Master's in English at the university. You're
a writer, too, but you've never published anything. You're single and you
don't have a girlfriend. See. I know all about you. Can I come in?" She
bounced by me to spend the first of countless delightful hours.

Creaking, the rusted hinges on the door of my heart began to open.

Carla at fourteen slammed the door behind her. Angry eyes, perturbed
expression. Sweatshirt hiding budding breasts. Shorts revealing long legs
starting to ripen. Brown hair, slightly curled, to her shoulders.

"I hate boys."

"Why?"

Hands on hips, eyes flashing. "They all want to play with me. Do I look like
a toy to you? Well, Bill, do I?"

How do you talk about love, about sex, to a beautiful young woman starting
to blossom? How do you talk about those things you desperately wish to share
with her?

Carla at sixteen closed the door softly behind her. She sat on the couch.
Blue eyes sensual. Brown hair streaked with redblonde sunlight. Shapely leg
tucked under her. Breasts moved rhythmically as if an offer given only to be
 withdrawn.

"How's Jane?"

"We broke up."

"Of course. She wasn't the woman for you. I could've told you that. Do you
have a new girlfriend?"

"No."

"I don't have a boyfriend." Brow furrowed waiting for me to speak. She
leaned forward hesitantly. "I want to be your girlfriend, Bill."

"Carla, I love you," rushed from me.

She flew onto my lap. Arms around my neck. Lips hot against mine. "I love
you, too. I want to make love to you, Bill. I want you now."

Insane for a man of twenty-nine to take a girl of sixteen? Yes. Insanely in
love. Hot Carla. Sexy Carla. Laughing, loving Carla. Carla and I for the
first of many times.

I opened the door to Carla at nineteen. Red eyes swollen with tears and
guilt. Face puffy. Shoulders slumped.

"What's wrong?" I asked apprehensively.

"I... oh, God, Bill. I . . ."

She slumped to the floor. Sobs ripped the air as she rocked, cradling
herself in her arms. Voice tortured.

"I cheated on you. Please, Bill, can you forgive me?"

The doors of my heart opened wider, telling me this woman, with all her
faults, held the key.

The doors at the back of the church opened. The organ played and Carla
entered. Veiled, all in white. Radiant at the altar. Tears of joy slipped
down my face. Her love enveloped me.

I opened the front door to find Carla at twenty-nine on the floor, pregnant
belly resting on her crossed legs, our three children piled around her.

"Daddy's home!" a small voice squealed.

Carla smiled up at me and the weight of the world evaporated. "I'm glad
you're home. I don't think I can get up."

"Not with three kids sitting on you anyway."

"Oh, Bill, aren't they wonderful. And it won't be too long until there's
another one."

I stood behind her as Carla at forty opened the front door. Our daughter was
there. Beaming, shining. A reflection of her mother. A young man at her
side. "Mom. Dad. This is Jason."

In front of the church, I opened the car door for Carla at forty-two. "I
can't believe I'm the mother of the bride. Good Lord, I'm not that old. How
do I look?"

"Ravishing. Magnificent. More beautiful than ever."

Lips warm and loving against mine.  Eyes twinkled. "I shouldn't have asked
you. You're too much in love to give an honest opinion."

I gave my eldest away. Her two sisters were bridesmaids. Her brother was a
groomsman.

Carla at fifty opened the door.

"Merry Christmas," they shouted.

Giggles. Laughter. Little feet quick and light. Little hands seeking mine.
Little kisses wet and tender. Christmas. Gathering of the clan rocked the
old house, overflowing it with love.

I threw open the doors to the emergency room. Terror filled my heart.

"I'm Bill Brown. Car wreck. My wife."

"I'm sorry. We tried, but . . . "

I sat by her grave as the minister spoke. Sunlight beamed down. Our children
and grandchildren surrounded me.

The doors to my heart slowly closed.

Not in anguish or fear, but to hold safe the most precious thing I have.

Memories of Carla.


The End

Please! Give me your comments!

E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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