Candy in the Sack by K. W. Jeter Page B

would press even more firmly against the roundness of her breast; her gasp then would be smothered in a hungrier kiss, her spine arching her trembling form against chest and stomach. He knew, from all the times before, that he would actually have to push her away slightly, one hand at her hip, so that he could slide his hand from her breast, across her stomach, his thumb grazing her belly button as his fingertips moved under the thin elastic band of her panties. The soft hair would curl and twine around his fingers as her legs parted in unbidden response to his touch. Another kiss would greet the pressure of his fingertips, lips softening and swelling as he teased them open, the wetness inside like the sun-hot nectar of a flower in that unfolding garden . . .
    “I had no idea that free sugar was all that important to you.”
    Sherri’s voice roused him from the daydream into which he had fallen. And out of which he climbed with some reluctance: he saw with some regret that the moment had passed. She had already pulled on the jeans, and was now reaching behind herself to close the snap of her bra.
    “Well, it wasn’t, actually.” It had taken a couple seconds to recall exactly what they had been talking about. “Trick-or-treating was for little kids; I mean, I did it when I was a little kid, but you grow out of things like that. And then you’re a big kid.”
    “You’re still a big kid.” Sherri tugged the bra’s cups into perfect position. “You always will be.”
    “Yeah, but I m not getting to do what a big kid—I mean, an adult—is supposed to be doing. I got to do it for a while, back when I was like maybe twelve or thirteen years old. But that s all over with now.”
    “What is?”
    “You know.” He felt a little annoyed that he had to talk about these things at all; maybe they weren’t things that she felt in the same way. And that maybe it was something that made him seem a little ridiculous to her. “Not going out trick-or-treating, but being the one handing out the candy instead. You know, you got the bowl full of candy, all those little Mars bars and miniature Snickers and Butterfingers, on a little table beside the front door, so you can get at ’em easy, every time the doorbell rings. But you gotta go back to the kitchen, where the big bags of candy are out on the counter, and refill the bowl three or four or maybe even a half-dozen times. And it’s like your mom’s biggest Tupperware bowl, and you still gotta keep topping it up.” A flood of memories pushed his words along. “Because there’s like this line of little kids, snaking down the sidewalk in front of your house, coming up the walk to your front door, then back out to the sidewalk and snaking along to your next-door neighbor’s house. And that would go on for hours.”
    “And you miss that?”
    “Yeah I do.” Bryan felt defensive about it. “I liked being the guy on the other side of the door. First, my dad did it, and I suppose his dad did it, and then it was my turn. You know, it’s like tradition, something that gets handed down from generation to generation.”
    “Well,” said Sherri, “I’m sure that America’s manufacturers of cheap candy would like you to think so.”
    “But it was.” Nothing she could say would throw him off track now. “It was a neat thing, and it’s all over now. You had your bowl of candy by the door, and the doorbell would ring and you’d open it and there would be these little clowns and ghosts you know, that their moms had cut up an old bed sheet to turn ’em into and they would have these sacks that were already so full of candy that they could barely lug them around, and you’d throw in a couple pieces more, and they’d run away because they wanted to get to the next house, and all the other houses down the street. And right behind them, at the front door, there’d be a little hobo and a little ballerina —“
    “Ballerina?” Sherri raised an eyebrow, as she buttoned her