Scrambled Eggs, Plain
She can see how the conversation played out like it happened yesterday.
"Olivia, you are the most intensely visual student I have ever had in my classroom," Ms. Dickinson had said.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, some students learn best by listening, others are tactile — they learn best through touch. But you . . ."
"I learn best by watching?"
"Exactly. And here's the thing, Olivia. Your visual learning style will serve you well all of your life — it is a very, very good thing to have."
"I'm glad I have it," Olivia had said, perking up and smiling.
"But, you should know, that's only one side of this coin."
"Oh?"
"What I mean is, anything you see gets pretty much permanently burned into your memory. The problem is, there will always be somethings which, once you see them, you can't forget, as much as you might like to."
"That sounds bad."
"Yes, it could be bad. But, for now, let's just focus on the good side of your gift, shall we?"
That middle school conversation stuck with Olivia like a video recording that she's played back in her mind over and over. She can still see the look in Ms. Dickinson's eyes as she explained things that day, one-on-one with Olivia, late in the afternoon after all the other students had left, the two of them facing each other, each seated in kids chairs by the bookshelf.
Olivia can still visualize her teacher's intense blue eyes, her pulled-back dark hair and tight, pale blue button-front blouse, with the top three buttons open, revealing more than just a hint of tempting cleavage; the pale peach shade of lipstick Ms. Dickinson wore that day, a perfect match for the polish she had on eight out of ten of her fingernails — along with the contrasting flat black color standing out from each of her middle fingers, the nails of which were trimmed and filed short; along with the tiny black flower tattoo just above the knuckle of each middle finger — and how, after explaining Olivia's visual learning style, Ms. Dickinson turned to face her directly and gently pulled Olivia's right hand near her mouth saying, "watch this," after which she took all three the inches of Olivia's middle finger deep into her mouth, holding it there by gripping her little wrist, sucking on her finger passionately as all the while Olivia held her breath and trembled and felt things deep within her which she couldn't understand.
Once Olivia's glistening wet middle finger was released from captivity, Ms. Dickinson put her hand behind the small of Olivia's back and pulled her student's ear to her mouth and whispered, "I guarantee you, Olivia, as long as you live, you will never forget what you just saw."
- - - - -
Watching her mother, the White House breakfast chef, was one of Olivia's favorite things to do. Even though she wasn't allowed to be actually in the kitchen, Olivia had discovered a hidden-away perch from which, if she peeked around the corner just right, she could see everything her mother was doing.
Today, it appeared the First Family required another round of mimosas and an added silver tray of cinnamon rolls, which Olivia's mom had just pulled from the oven. Just as the buttercream frosting for the rolls was being lifted from the bowl spoonful by spoonful, the swinging kitchen door from the executive dining room was blown open by the First Lady, who appeared to be in a rage.
"You!"
"Mrs. Harrison?" Olivia's mother was startled by the one-word attack.
"Don't 'Mrs. Harrison' me!"
The First Lady grabbed Olivia's mother by the wrist, forcing the icing spoon to fall to the white tile floor.
"I don't know how many times I have to tell you! Keep that spinach and kale shit OUT of our scrambled eggs!"
"Ma'am, the President requested - -"
"I don't care what he requested, we want our scrambled eggs PLAIN. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am," Olivia's mom looked down at the icing spoon on the floor as the First Lady finally released her wrist.
Nearing the swinging door, Mrs. Harrison turned to face Olivia's mother once again, still in a rage. "And why do you get to have living quarters in the White House? Tell me that! None of the other kitchen staff get to live here! Why do you? Huh?"
There was a long, awkward silence as the First Lady waited for an answer, but Olivia's mom offered none.
- - - - -
Her middle school teacher had been right. There were things Olivia wouldn't be able to erase from her memory — things she could never unsee — like how her mother's wrist was grabbed by the First Lady; and how her mom had just stood there and accepted that kind of treatment, being made to feel like a nobody, a nothing.
"Mom is a world-class chef, she shouldn't have to put up with this kind of shit," Olivia thought to herself. She was angry. Depressed. Confused. We did their lives have to be like this?
Olivia, feeling empty, mindlessly returned to her quarters, planning a shower. Long hot showers always helped her.
Steam was billowing from the shower as Olivia found a towel and stepped out of her clothes, catching a glimpse of herself in the fogging mirror. The hint of sex shifted her thoughts to Justin — imagining he has come to join her in the shower, standing behind her and touching her with soaking wet skin under the hot flowing falling jungle rainwater, his hands sliding silky, slippery soap all over her — soap that gave off a scent that magically transforms from coconut vapor to the sound of Justin's voice in her ear and the imagined taste of Ms. Dickinson's middle finger in her mouth.