Sugar Daddy Dreams

Burnt toast, avocado, honey, two poached eggs laced with turmeric and garlic, and a new vitamin concoction that makes my stomach churn, and still, I guzzle half of it down with gusto, as if it’s our first Godfather Cocktail at Carlo’s Bar.

Why, you ask?

Because one should keep a woman happy if she did her damnedest to keep you happy the night before, that’s why. But for the Harley-Davidson Fat Bob, I don’t regret what I had to give up to have her to myself. Ten straight-arrow years on my part, and were it not for her insistence on feeding me this anti-COVID breakfast, she has made each year as palatable as a Route 66 Arizona ride-through (still on my bucket list) or the Tail of the Dragon at Deals Gap (done that right out of college, on Dad’s old Harley XLX).

I bite off a chunk of the burnt toast and gulp down the last of the concoction. It tastes like prune juice sprinkled with coconut flakes.

“New blend?” I ask, glancing at the hourglass squeeze above her hip.

“Yeah.”

The sultry way she looks at me from beneath the self-inflicted jagged bangs makes me want to say the hell with everything; let’s extend our virtual stay, a reward for all the extra hours I put in at work.

I was in for a bonus and a big one at that. But now all is in limbo, except paying the bills. Those never go away. Add to that the expenses for the children’s new hobbies, the joyful buys for the new baby (arrival still six months away), and let’s not forget Grandma at our summer home in a COVID-free area (for the moment) of Cape Cod, and you have extra bills piling on top of the monthly ones. Thankful Gran is, of course, to be out of the nursing home. We even hired a live-in carer for her. As for the children, Amazon Prime deliveries are on time.

I sigh as I gather the last of the poached eggs (which, I must say, are almost not overcooked,) onto a bite-size triangle of toast. I want to find the right words to say. She deserves it. And I do regret not having more time to share, just us two (which is odd, considering we are in lockdown).

She smiles at me. She understands. Above our heads, I hear a scampering of tiny feet. “Who knows when we can ….” She tightens the belt of her robe.

I too tighten mine, and with a sigh say, “The next time they’ll tire enough to go to sleep early and wake up past ten. Here is something for you.”

I hand her the unsealed envelope.

She looks inside, counts with her index finger each banknote. “Can’t use these now. But I got the new credit card.”

“Take it anyway. It makes me feel good,” I say. “Like the old times.”

We had the world to ourselves, back then, and our imagination ran wild on and off old Fat Bob. We had no home, but open skies and Wild West landscapes. I was her Easy Rider, her Wild One; and she my Cat Ballou, my Lady in Red, my …

“Cash for a rainy day, who knows what will be.” She hides the envelope in her robe pocket. “You’re the best sugar daddy ever.”

For a few more minutes, perhaps, then I’ll turn back into her thrifty ol’ husband and she into my pregnant ol’ wife and super-duper mom. Already, hungry munchkins are scurrying down the stairs.


Bio: Enza Vynn-Cara is the pen name of Vincenzina Caratozzolo. Enza comes from a medical background and has a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her short stories appear in Second Helpings, an Anthology with Recipes, and in Women Who Write with Elves, an Anthology. Her flash fiction and poetry have been published in Village Square.