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Writer
Join Date: Aug 2004
Location: Southern California
Posts: 33
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A Detriment of Love
I sunk low into my heavy jacket and felt the tobacco in one pocket and the cubic metal lighter in the other. I felt the tiny blemishes on the cold steel and rubbed my fingers along the cursive, engraved writing of her name. The doorman nodded to me, wearing his militaristic uniform, and closed the wrought iron gate behind me.
Walking out of the downtown bar, I flipped up my collar and wiped the tears from my eyes; I didn't want anyone to know I had been crying. The bar door locked behind me, and I headed north to Vine, walking under pewter buildings with fresh gaudy façades, but unkempt alleys. The false-highs of old general stores loomed with archaic fonts, the letters disintegrating and revealing the twilight between the new and old paint under the fallen letters.
Time had passed and I still felt the same ache in my chest. The longing wouldn't subside. I couldn't sleep in the same bed where we laid together and held each other in the dark, revealing to each other under the sheets our utmost humilities and desires.
I would stand in the hallway now and solemnly look into our old room. If I looked close enough at the pillow, I would find one of her long black hairs and I'd weep. I would hold the pillow close to my face; I would suck on the hair hoping it would ease the suffering in at least some minute way. I'd search the bed for some trace of her fragrance, her womanly peach smell, but I would find nothing. I'd close the door.
Now I would stay away from our apartment, boozing at any bar that would have me. I'd walk under the early morning fog and under the orange rings of the streetlights, misty eyed and damp; a homeless dog nobody wanted.
It had begun with a lunch. She stood right in front of me scanning the restaurant. She lit up the room and I thought this had to be the woman my best friend had described to me.
"Where's Nick?" I said.
She turned to me as I stood to greet her. "You must be Jack," Nick's wife said. "It's nice to finally meet you."
"Have a seat."
"I'd thought Nicholas would be here by now," she said, looking at her watch. "He said 3:00 didn't he?"
"Yeah, he's usually the early one," I said, still overwhelmed by her presence.
I motioned to the waiter. "What'll you be having?"
"I'll have a Kettle Martini, dirty," she smiled.
"The lady will have a Kettle Martini, dirty, and I'll have another," I said, lifting and rattling the ice in my glass. The waiter nodded and walked to the bar.
The restaurant buzzed with the afternoon lunch crowd, young professionals clad in casual business attire, trading stabs at modern-day office politics. The Forecast Restaurant was a posh upscale steakhouse in the heart of Los Angeles's fashion district, which meant soft lighting and dark woods.
She was thumbing her new wedding ring and reading the menu. "So, how's the writing going, Jack?"
I sipped my drink and winced, "It's the life. I sleep till noon, write a few pages, carouse at night, bring home communicable paramours every night." She laughed. "No really, it entails busting my ass to write a few crappy columns, then driving to city colleges at night to try and teach a bunch of inept students." I took another drink. I was dressed well in cheap soft pants and a burgundy pseudo-Prada shirt with the cuffs rolled, but my eyes were already reddening.
"Excuse me, Jack," she said, opening her purse, "My phone's buzzing, it might be Nicholas. Hello? Yeah, we're here, where are you…"
I tuned out her conversation and glimpsed at a waitress lighting a candle. She placed the glass cover around the flame and knocked a fork off the table. She kicked the fork out of view, and took a fork from another table and set it in its place. I smiled and finished my Chianti. I thought, maybe I'll write about that some day, looking back at Nick's wife, fingering her silver necklace.
"Well Nicholas is not going to make it," she said, collapsing her phone. "He's hung up in a meeting, he said to tell you sorry and he'll see at your parent's on the 4th." She brimmed with confidence; she spoke beautifully and looked me in the eye. "Did you still want to have lunch or..."
"No, no, it's fine," I assured her, although a little uncomfortable with the idea. "I'm sure we could manage without him."
"Great, because I'm starving."
I studied the contour of her neck as she spoke, the soft age under her eyes and the curls at the tips of her black hair. We talked quietly through our meal and I felt an indisputable vibe between us. I sat there, flirting with my childhood friend's wife. She smiled at me and I smiled my best, turning to the floor looking coy. We finished our meals, several drinks, and a bottle of Beaulieu. Booze always brought out my superb charm and comfort of which I was unable to harness during sobriety.
She wore a beautiful brown leather jacket that draped just above her knees. She kept it tied at the waist and didn't remove it until she had a few drinks. Perhaps she was insecure of her full figured body; the natural weight of age that tends to keep middle-aged women covered. I thought she looked gorgeous. Her blue eyes radiated life as she listened to me talk; she kept one hand on the table and the other under her flabby jaw line as she listened attentively. She asked me questions and I responded coolly using faint gestures women may often use when drawing attention to themselves-I had this effect mastered and I displayed it in all its disgust. Even as I was speaking to her, I could feel my own vulgar flirtatiousness, but I lacked the continence.
We left the Forecast just after dark. A crisp chill blew between the downtown buildings as she waited for the valet.
"Jack, are you sure you don't want a ride?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"No really, it's no trouble at all," she said.
The valet pulled her silver German car to the front.
"Last chance, Jack," she said, handing the valet a five dollar bill.
"No, I'm good. Thanks a lot though. We should definitely do this again."
"I'll call you," she smiled, paused for a moment looking at me, and drove away.
We tried to avoid each other at first, but our love was apparent from the beginning. I had to be around her, just to talk and feel her presence. She told me she felt the same, and that when we were apart she thought about hanging out with me. To Nick we were just two of his favorite people in the world enjoying a meal together. We had met for lunch several more times; conveniently, she scheduled them all at times Nick couldn't attend. We were drawn to one another, but we didn't express our feelings till the fourth encounter.
She reached for the bill and I put my hand on top of hers to chivalrously take the bill. She didn't flinch or move, "Jack, paying every time is a bit of an antiquated policy, don't you think?"
I was too shy to look at her face; I just absorbed the softness of her hand, the smallness of her fingers, and her wedding ring with the big diamond.
She lifted my face to hers and told me to say what I was thinking. I hesitated and reminisced of the games Nick and I used to play as children: We'd skip our way down the street playing Lava or other games of our devise. The point of Lava was to stay off the grass in our yard by skipping from stone to brick or whatever boundary marker available. If you happened to lose your balance and fall and touch the grass, you were burned alive and your flesh would melt from your body, which could feel rather unpleasant.
I forced myself to make that a distant cloud of memory. I swallowed my fears and told her how I felt. She listened and squeezed my hand, then told me how she felt. We both sat quietly in reluctant jubilation till she finally reached across the table and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. My heart drummed in my chest and all the self-loath and guilt started to melt.
I waited for Nick one day outside of his office. I tried to explain to him his wife and I had fallen in love and that she was going to leave him. He didn't let me finish, but just walked away. I would never see him again. I had become a creature that was destined to a horrid fate. I tried to explain the situation to him, but there isn't any easy way to tell a man his wife is leaving him for his best friend.
Now I walked with the burden on my shoulders as Nick did, kicking an empty can through the moonless downtown streets. It was my turn to feel the agony. I had screwed my lifelong friend but I didn't care. All I had felt was the consuming comfort of the girl I had had. She had made me want to live better. I finished all my stories; I had begun writing again with a new passion. I felt anything I would write would bear fruit.
Eight months had passed, the divorce from Nick was final, and we were already living together. We moved into an apartment and out of the one bedroom shack I'd been nesting in. We jogged every evening around our new neighborhood and talked about each other's day with intrigue. I would sit at my desk and she, my muse, would sit spread out on the couch, reading her books in her soft sweats and sox. I'd wake up early on the weekends and make her breakfast, and happily watch her consume the food I made just for her.
At Vine I turned left into a parking structure and felt for the bottle of Jack in my inner coat pocket. I took a drink and felt the sour whiskey run down my throat and warm my insides. I could no longer feel the youth of my body carrying me, only a tired, heart-wrenched adulterer wallowing down empty streets.
I turned right, now aimlessly walking up the grade of a hill. I felt weeds catching onto my pants, but I felt too helpless to do anything about it. I slipped into the gutter and chipped my tooth. I felt warm blood running down my chin and I spit from my numb lips. I lay there, face down in the gutter, watching my blood curl and twist into several little pools. I looked deep into my brown blood and saw my bloody gums in the mirror after she had accidentally kneed me in the mouth. We had been fooling around in bed when she jarred my tooth loose. She had run to the kitchen and returned with ice in a damp towel. She sat Indian style in front of me and held ice to my jaw. I didn't need it, but I let her baby me and coo, holding me to her chest and rubbing my head. We had laughed in the morning when my lip was swollen.
"What are you going to tell your students?" she said.
"I'll just tell them it happened in the bedroom and let them imagine their own sexual scenarios," I said, teasingly.
She was putting her lipstick on in the mirror. "Just tell the girls you were talking dirty to your girlfriend again and you got what you deserved," she retorted, smiling. "I'm off. I'll give you a call around noon for lunch, okay babe?"
"Yeah, I should just be getting out of bed," I yawned. "Just kidding, I'll be waiting for you hon."
We kissed and I brought her into my lap and squeezed her tight. She smelled good, fresh from the shower and her fruit smelling shampoos.
"They should institute a sex delay excuse card," she said, rubbing her cheek to mine.
I told her to stay and go into the office later or call in sick. She said she had to go, so we kissed and she left. I shouldn't have let her go.
I awoke shivering. It must have rained while I was passed out in the gutter. My jacket was wet on the back but my front was dry. I found my bottle close by and continued again down the empty street, oblivious to my direction.
A homeless man leaned out from seemingly nowhere, or between two buildings and said: "Do you have any change, brother?"
I said yes and kept walking. I would be cruel to the world from now on. My disposition would consist of facetiousness and malice. I'd shy away from my family and forget about what she had made me.
She had never called for lunch. I assumed she was held up at work and couldn't make it. She would have called though. When she didn't show at her usually time that evening, I called the police. They had told me there was nothing they could do, and at least three days must past before someone is declared missing. Shamefully, I thought maybe there might be someone else, had she walked out on me like she did on Nick? I hoped she was out partying with her friends but that was unlikely.
When I awoke the next morning, the looming ache set in, the feeling of utter helplessness. I called everyone we knew; none had heard from her. I didn't sleep that night; I sat by the phone and deliriously peered out the window hoping to see her walking from under the apartment's awning, slowly crossing the threshold, and putting her arms around my neck.
Jesus, God, Jesus, please let her be okay. I know I only speak to you in my darkest hours, but she is all that is good and pure. Please let her be okay, not for me, but for the sake of the beautiful creation that she is. Again, He would never answer me.
The police finally came and took a report. They had asked for the names and numbers of friends relatives, ex-boyfriends; their methodic routine seeming futile.
I hadn't heard Nicholas's name in almost a year. When the police mentioned him as a suspect, I couldn't fathom Nick harming her. I had grown up with Nick, he was loveable and we were like brothers. A brother I would later cause grief to.
I had started imagining different ploys: Nick waiting for her to arrive to the garage at her work. He would approach her from behind with maybe a rag doused in chloroform. She would briefly struggle, but he would effortlessly lift her body until she stopped kicking. Then, maybe, he would slam her into his trunk and drive away.
I didn't watch the trial, only dwelled on her. I began drinking again to ease the suffering, fill the void, the abyss of whatever would be left inside me. It really didn't matter how she finally died, she was gone forever. The soul I'd seen through her eyes when we made love had left her body.
The booze started to clear from my head. I rubbed the gray stubble on my vanishing jaw line and thought about when the rent would be due next. I sat on the curb and pulled my heavy jacket into me, trying to keep out the morning chill that had set in. Looking down, I could see the gutter water swirling around in fine oily strands. I placed my fingertips into the disregarded water and felt the coolness and slime. I lifted my hand and watched the water run to the ends of my fingers and form drops under its own weight. The brown droplets leaped from my fingers back into the gutter, the remaining water stayed with me, unable to break the surface tension with its weight.
The first purples of the new day slowly stretched from the east. The bars would be open again in an hour and I could get warm. The morning chill felt like tiny crystals in my lungs and labored my breath as steam escaped from my mouth. The alcohol embedded on my tongue, and I fingered the lighter in my pocket and ran my frozen fingers across the engraved letters of her name one at a time: C, l, a, i, r, and e.
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"We don't rent pigs!"
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