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There’s nothing Wanda likes more than Hanks body pressed against hers.
Okay, that's totally a lie.
Let’s start over. There are so many bodies Wanda would rather be pressed up against. George Clooney look alike, followed by George Clooney, and that stripper from Emma’s bachelorette party to name a few.
The last thing she ever intended was to have that dimwit’s, pasty, frame covering hers... EVER!
But it happens. Over and over, and over again.
Probably, some Pavlovian response, germinating from a childhood need for rebellion and destruction. Culminating from a lack of stimulating resources available in the prairies, for highly giften children..
That or she has a thing for dumb guys, which would explain the occasional Davis bike riding fantasies.
It’s best not to dwell on it.
Hank is a complete, utter moron, hailing from the planet, Too Stupid to Realise His Own Stupidity. He’s impossible to reason with, probably because he has no sense of reason. No sense of anything, really. A man whose complete existence is derived from caveman essentials. Eating, sleeping and listening to Metallica.
But boy is he tactile.
He treats her like a complex engine he’s trying to figure out. Rough hands skim across, carefully gentle than perfectly strong Blunt nails scratch lightly over skin. Goose bumps erupt as he gauges her every reaction. It feels good, really good. She likes a man that knows how to follow instructions and this happens to be the only time he bothers to listen. Copying every movement and direction with methodical focus. His mouth (usually the source of her annoyance). trails leisurely along her neck, all pouty and soft, forcing her eyes to close, while a sigh escapes from her lips. Nipping playfully at her skin, with just the right amount of sharpness. Forging a path, tortuously slow, gradually lower.
One time when they were nineteen. Hank looked up at her from between her thighs. Eyes dark and mouth damp, and said with the utmost certainty. That they had to wear a condom because and I quote, "when you taste this sweet it means you can get pregnant'.
It’s the single, sexiest/grossest thing that's ever happened to her. In her entire life.
And she always practices safe sex. Just so you know. t’s a small town, things have a habit of… getting around.
No one wants a repeat of the rash epidemic in 83'.
They have a system, concocted over the years. It’s a look, usually over a beer or a desk counter, after a long day. A touch, a jean clad thigh pressed against another. A gesture, a blind eye over a stolen bag of chips; a car tune-up without asking; a lift home; or a home cooked supper. So well-practiced it's part of her subconscious.
Their fights are nothing like the ones they have at night.
Okay that’s also a lie, they don’t really fight at night, bicker on the couch, sure. There’s about a handful of rudimentary insults, before Hank’s had enough and corners her against the cushions. The only advantage he’s ever had over her is his height. Pinning her wrists behind her back or high against her head. Like some hyper masculine mechanic. You've read about in those trashy romance books, (not that she’s ever read any of those). Body so firmly against hers she can feel the warm muscles of his stomach and thighs. For a moment all she can do is be surrounded by him. Breathe in the feint smell of sweat. Listen to his heartbeat drum beneath his chest, and stare into his dark, oh so dark eyes.
Then he says something stupid. Stumbles at taking off her shirt, and she rolls her eyes. Kicks him in the shin and tackles him to the ground. His protests are soon replaced with quiet murmurs.
She’s known him for decades. Nothing ever changes between them. They’re stuck in stasis. Two people forever in each other’s orbits, held together by gravity.
They just are.
They see other people when the opportunity arises, but it's Dog River, options are limited. It doesn’t help that she has a kid and he’s well, Hank.
But for the town idiot, he can sure put on the charm when he wants to.
Not that she’s jealous. They never get jealous. Jealousy would imply they have something assembling a… *shudder* relationship. Which they don’t. Ask anyone. Not Brent.
Though she’ll never really know for sure if Hank purposely forgot to write Joe, milk guy’s, number down or not.
He’s great with her kid. Runs, jumps, tackles. Watches cartoons, reads comics. Eats way too much sugar, and gets excited about everything. She has a theory that his lack of worries is the reason why he looks so young. She can't deny that nothing is ever boring for too long with him around.
The problem with Hank, (besides everything), is that deep down he’s kind. In fact, he's the kindest person she knows. She doesn’t know if it’s the lack of brain matter that makes him to be so damn genuine, but he is. He’s kind, honest and fun and familiar, and it kills her that she feels this way about him. Except that it doesn’t.
Except when it’s the last round at the bar and he walks her to her car, so he can drive. Or when they purposely goad each other, like two kids fighting over a sandbox, and Tanner rolls his eyes and calls them "gross". Or when they have lunch together and she steals all his fries, and he sips her coke. Or when he hangs out at the gas station and they don’t talk. Him reading a comic book. She, a book on Quantum Physics.
Years ago after she graduated college all she wanted to do was to blow this popsicle stand and make her mark in the big city. A swanky job, wearing pressed blazers and too much hairspray. Alongside a fast talking boyfriend, who owned his own cell phone and ordered skinny lattes. But she realised that she would always be a country girl at heart, and after five years of finding herself. She decided to go back home.
The first thing she saw driving past the Dog River welcome sign was Hank. Trying to turn his truck into a skate ramp.
She was home.
The bustle and bright lights of the city. Have nothing on the calm, clean breeze of prairie air, and the blossom of blue corn. A simple life. Reading books, working a job, raising her son. And playing the same old games with a boy who repeated the fifth grade and still pulls at her pigtails.
Turns out all she needs in life is her kid, a job and a dumbass…but if that milk guy calls, she’s on it.