Cimmy's Note: Dear Samantha, you’re Fred’s most loyal fan. I appreciate your feedback and opinions more than anything. I’m so glad you like this story.

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Chapter 4. Rare Awakenings
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    Something tickles my cheek, making me wake up from my deep sleep. My head is placed on the kitchen table, surrounded by papers and folders. I look up. Catalina is leaning over me, wearing one of my sweatshirts. It’s the oversized sleeve she’s tickling my face with, and I jerk my head up.

    “Good morning, sleepyhead.” She jumps down on the floor, taking a few skips. “You want some coffee?”

    I never used to drink coffee before I started working at MC. Catalina’s just being nice, I know she hates it herself. “No, I’m fine.”

    “How about breakfast?” she asks, looking out from around the corner. “Bacon and eggs?”

    “Not if you want me to throw up,” I explain. I never eat breakfast anymore. I think I suffer from gastric ulcer because of my fucked up job. It’s not as bad as the occasional cramps Catalina gets because of that damn operation, but it’s not very pleasant.

    Once she’s gone again, I feel myself doze off. The next time I’m woken up, it’s by a much smaller hand, pulling my fingers. “Dad?”

    I force myself to look up. I can’t ignore my own son. That’s one of the things that make you go to hell when you die. Bailey has crawled up on the table, now resting on his hands and knees among my important papers. I would give him a lecture about staying off the table, hadn’t I been so overjoyed by the fact that he is awake.

    These last three days, it’s been too early when I left home, or too late when I got back, that he’s been sleeping at the time, making it impossible for me to see him.

    Catalina comes back and removes Bailey from the table. “Don’t disturb Daddy while he’s working, he might fire you,” she giggles, nuzzling her face into Bailey’s neck. He runs off to watch some TV, he’s addicted to that morning show on Disney Channel.

    Sometimes I just feel so old. When I look in the mirror, I don’t even recognize myself any longer. I look like I’ve aged ten years, just overnight. Catalina is still that young girl, looking slightly younger then she really is. She has to show her ID when she wants to get in some place, and I just get in without receiving even as much as a second glance. Not like we ever go anywhere, I’m just trying to explain.

    My wife, being twenty-one, born on the same year as I but still almost one year younger, has always had something juvenile about her appearance. When people hear that she’s just graduated, they assume from high school.

    I quickly gather my folders and shit together, planning to do the rest at the office. I look at the time. 6.45. My family is up quite early, I must say. Catalina is usually asleep when I leave for work, and Bailey gets his usual sugar-high around 8.30. More specifically around ‘Winnie the Pooh’ time.

    “Why are you up?” I grumble, still not completely awake. Catalina leans over me from behind, placing her arms around my neck. I look up, grab her arm and pull her into my lap. “I thought you weren’t a morning person.”

    “I just decided to keep you company for breakfast,” she says softly, kissing my ear. I fight back the urge to wave her off. My ears are off limit this early. “You’re late for work, Fred.”

    Stupid, stupid work. “You know, I think I have a few moments to spare,” I reply, without even the slightest bit of effort of disguising my intentions.

    Catalina leans her head on my shoulder, making a strange sound with her lips. “As lovely as that would be,” she mumbles close to my ear. “What about Bailey?”

    “He’s watching cartoons, he’ll be occupied for at least another day or so,” I point out. “He’ll be fine.”

    She snorts loudly. “The basic rule of caring for a child is to not leave it alone. Especially when it’s just 3 years old!”

    “So? Can’t we just put him in that playpen? That’ll keep him still,” I suggest. Catalina raises an eyebrow at me, giving me an amused gaze. “What?”

    “To start with, I don’t think he’ll like being trapped like that, and he would definitely climb out of it whenever he got the chance, since he hasn’t been put in that playpen since he was 1. But if you wanna make him cry, go ahead, put him in the playpen.”

    Fine, I won’t force my son to be in the playpen. “I’ll think of something,” I promise, getting up from the chair. I take her hand and lead her out to the living room where Bailey is sitting on the floor, glooming at the TV with wide eyes.

    “Piff and Puff!” my son howls when he sees me entering the room. That means he’s watching Chip and Dale. He mixes languages sometimes when he talks, not unlike my dear wife.

    “Cool!” I say, letting go of Catalina’s hand. Instead I ruffle his hair around, nodding at the screen. “You wanna watch a movie?”

    Great, I’m bribing my only child with television, just so I can have sex with his mother. Something is very disturbed about that. Bailey nods violently, almost falling over. I get up and take one of the DVD’s out from the shelf up on the wall. Bailey is clutching the case when I’ve loaded the disc into the DVD player. He’s not allowed to touch any of the technical equipment by himself. I usually stay away from it too, since Catalina becomes really upset whenever I break something.

    “There? Are you happy with that movie?” I ask, Bailey just waving at me. “You can just watch that for a while.” I turn to Catalina and give her a proud look. “See? I managed to solve it all.”

    “Oh, wonderful. I guess I really have to sleep with you now,” she teases, trying to hold back a smirk. I decide to let it go unnoticed. I really am late for work.

    This is also one of the more unique events. Morning sex. Rarer now then it used to be, thanks to my job.

    With the thought of Bailey banging in the back of my head, I decide that there’s no time for any games of seduction. I realize while I’m undressing that I never really went to bed last night. I just fell asleep in the kitchen. Must be why my neck is really sore. Or because of the violent contact with the bed last night.

    “How’s your head?” she murmurs, investigating my bump with her fingers while reading my mind. I squirm out of her grip, making her laugh. “You’re such a complainer!”

    “I’m fine,” I tell her, kissing her collar bone. Once again she tries to maneuver me onto my back, but I won’t let her have her way this time. Instead I throw one last look at the door, trying to remember if I locked it or not, before I pin her down using my weight to keep her from moving.

    This time I don’t let the cold bother me that much. I just notice that Catalina’s trembling a few times, her feet as cold as ice. Instead of making ourselves comfortable under the cover, we just stubbornly stay on top of the bed. I’m afraid I’m rushing things because of the stress I’m beginning to feel. While making love to Catalina, I continuously look at the alarm-clock by the nightstand.

    Why do I care so much that I’m going to be late when my job doesn’t matter to me? I twitch when Catalina accidentally kicks my thigh. She’s very passionate, but sometimes she’s far too vital. This time she buries her face against my throat to keep from wailing too loud. My muscles begin to tense up as she tightens herself around me. I thrust deeper, using my last bit of strength, while panicking about the time.

    “You have to go,” she points out; her voice is just a whisper. I feel her breath against my skin, while I try to gather myself. Two seconds after I’m finished, I always get that feeling of being restless. Maybe this will make me concentrate better at work, since sex gives me such a kick.

    “I know,” I growl, my heart racing. I trace my fingers along her arms, gently kissing her chest and throat. Whenever I inherit that God’s forsaken company, I’ll make sure it’ll go into bankruptcy, I swear to God.

    “It’s really late,” she continues, a bit more collected then before. I tug her closer, rolling over to the side. She wraps her arms around me, to be able to stay in the warmth of my embrace.

    Time passes slowly, but not slowly enough. The next time I look at the clock, it’s 7.50. Shit. I kiss her one more time, and she gives me that sad look. “Do you want me to call the janitor for you?” I wonder, trying to ease the guilt I feel.

    “I’ll be fine,” she nods, pulling away.

    “Two more minutes,” I say, not really in the mood of going to work. “One minute.”

    She opens her mouth to object, I already know it’s an objection, when there’s a knock on the door. I lean my head against Catalina’s, sighing loudly. “Dad?” Bailey’s voice reaches my ears.

    “I’m coming,” I reply, trying to force myself to get up.

    We get up, and she goes through her clothes, looking for something to wear. I do the same, although I realize that I have to shower before I leave. I pull on a pair of pants and a T-shirt, just so I can go see what Bailey’s request is about.

    “No picture,” Bailey says the minute I open the door. I sigh again, resting my head against the doorframe. I look in the direction he points, and yes, there’s no picture showing on the TV.

    “I’ll tell your Mom to help you,” I excuse myself, feeling the guilt strike as a bolt of lightning in my chest. Bailey came to me for help, and I just wave him off, leaving Catalina to take care of everything. What if I ruin his trust for me? What if he never comes to me for help ever again? What if he thinks I don’t care about him?

    “What’s up?” Catalina asks me, diving under my arm to get out into the living room. “Did the TV broke?”

    Bailey nods, taking her hand and leading her over to the couch. Great. Now I’m not just a lousy husband. I’m a lousy father too.