Post by Dirk Zephyrs on Sept 10, 2007 6:38:42 GMT -5
Well, either way, this is the paper I wrote last night.
***
“Come on, dear,” the woman said. She set her coffee on the table and gave a stony gaze at her husband across from her.
A tall, thick browed man with a classy mustache, her husband James looked like one of those bandits in old westerns—not the extras who get killed off, but like the main antagonists who charm all the ladies. He could probably make it into some movie or another if he wore a monocle. She’d mentioned it to him some years ago, and it had since been a running joke between them.
“I told you already,” he said, “It’s not a problem—we’ll get by.” He hadn’t touched his coffee, which was now cooling beside his plate of breakfast. He hadn’t touched that, either.
A half plate of eggs wasted again. He hadn’t been eating anything she’d given him—she worried about it a little, but he didn’t look bad, so she never mentioned it. She kissed him goodbye as he left for work and then picked up the newspaper. She read it every day, so much that it was just a habit rather than actually reading it—she simply skimmed the pages before setting it back down and clearing the table. She did lots of other chores while he was away, too; it was the least she could do for him while he labored away at the construction sites.
He came home at seven, much later than usual.
“Where’ve you been? Your dinner’s cold,” she said. She put her hands on her hips before walking to the refrigerator and withdrawing a plate of food—chicken, green beans, and a potato. She placed it in the microwave with a sigh.
“Just having a drink with the guys,” he said, swaying slightly. His breath smelled of cheap vodka.
She watched in silence as he ate his dinner, and then cleared his place. He smiled at her and leaned back when she sat down beside him.
“When was the last time?” she said. She placed a hand on his and kissed him on the cheek.
“Too long,” he said. He pressed his hand against her breast. They were firm and callused, but cold.
“Kiss me,” she said. He did. It was chilling, but her heart skipped a beat and propelled her all the further into desire.
She stood up abruptly, knocking over her chair, and she pulled him up, leading him to the bedroom. He brushed up against her rear; it felt like he was ready to burst his pants. She unzipped them, revealing his rigid form. She pushed him into the bed before revealing her body to him. She pulled herself onto him with a gasp. It wasn’t the best sex they had ever had—he was almost like a doll as she rode him, but she came in the end nonetheless. She wrapped him in her arms before falling asleep.
The doorbell woke her up, and she was surprised to see the time was eleven. She hustled James out of bed and then dressed herself to answer the door.
“Who is it?” she said.
“It’s the police. We’d like to have a word with you about your husband,” came the reply. It was a woman’s voice.
“Jimmy’s done nothing wrong,” she said, her voice shaking. She held the door tight.
“He hasn’t been to work in a week, ma’am, and none of his friends have seen him, either.” This voice was definitely male, a deep, gruff bass.
“What are you talking about? He’s right here!” she said, enraged.
“Who is it?” James shouted through the house.
“Can we speak with Mr. Johnson, then?” said the woman.
“Let them in,” James said. He walked up and placed his hand on her shoulder. He was wearing a bathrobe.
She opened the door. “You see? He’s right here!” she said.
“What are you talking about?” said the man.
“Jesus Christ!” said the woman, clutching at her nose. The man looked at her and then nodded.
“You mind if we take a look inside?” he said. The female officer stepped away from the door and was talking on the phone.
“Sure,” her husband said.
“Okay…” she said, her voice quaking. She stepped aside to let the man walk through.
He pinched his nose closed as he explored the home, breathing scarcely. She moused along behind him, peeking around his shoulders like she was afraid of what he’d find. He opened the bedroom door and then doubled back, gasping for air. He’d never smelled a week old corpse before.
“God damn!” he said. The other policeman entered with a knowing look on her face.
“The hearse’ll be here soon,” she said.
“What do you mean, hearse?” the woman said, panicking. Where had James disappeared to?
“Ma’am, you may want to sit down…” the man said. He motioned towards the sofa.
“What is going on? Where did my husband go!” she screamed. She panicked, pulling herself back to the wall.
“It’s just that… Your husband is dead,” said the female officer.
“He can’t be!” she screamed, “I mean, last night we…” She sobbed into her shirtsleeves.
“Don’t listen to them,” James said, his hand on her arm.
“But… but…” She knew the truth. It was too late. “No…” She sobbed and curled into a ball on the floor.
***
“Come on, dear,” the woman said. She set her coffee on the table and gave a stony gaze at her husband across from her.
A tall, thick browed man with a classy mustache, her husband James looked like one of those bandits in old westerns—not the extras who get killed off, but like the main antagonists who charm all the ladies. He could probably make it into some movie or another if he wore a monocle. She’d mentioned it to him some years ago, and it had since been a running joke between them.
“I told you already,” he said, “It’s not a problem—we’ll get by.” He hadn’t touched his coffee, which was now cooling beside his plate of breakfast. He hadn’t touched that, either.
A half plate of eggs wasted again. He hadn’t been eating anything she’d given him—she worried about it a little, but he didn’t look bad, so she never mentioned it. She kissed him goodbye as he left for work and then picked up the newspaper. She read it every day, so much that it was just a habit rather than actually reading it—she simply skimmed the pages before setting it back down and clearing the table. She did lots of other chores while he was away, too; it was the least she could do for him while he labored away at the construction sites.
He came home at seven, much later than usual.
“Where’ve you been? Your dinner’s cold,” she said. She put her hands on her hips before walking to the refrigerator and withdrawing a plate of food—chicken, green beans, and a potato. She placed it in the microwave with a sigh.
“Just having a drink with the guys,” he said, swaying slightly. His breath smelled of cheap vodka.
She watched in silence as he ate his dinner, and then cleared his place. He smiled at her and leaned back when she sat down beside him.
“When was the last time?” she said. She placed a hand on his and kissed him on the cheek.
“Too long,” he said. He pressed his hand against her breast. They were firm and callused, but cold.
“Kiss me,” she said. He did. It was chilling, but her heart skipped a beat and propelled her all the further into desire.
She stood up abruptly, knocking over her chair, and she pulled him up, leading him to the bedroom. He brushed up against her rear; it felt like he was ready to burst his pants. She unzipped them, revealing his rigid form. She pushed him into the bed before revealing her body to him. She pulled herself onto him with a gasp. It wasn’t the best sex they had ever had—he was almost like a doll as she rode him, but she came in the end nonetheless. She wrapped him in her arms before falling asleep.
The doorbell woke her up, and she was surprised to see the time was eleven. She hustled James out of bed and then dressed herself to answer the door.
“Who is it?” she said.
“It’s the police. We’d like to have a word with you about your husband,” came the reply. It was a woman’s voice.
“Jimmy’s done nothing wrong,” she said, her voice shaking. She held the door tight.
“He hasn’t been to work in a week, ma’am, and none of his friends have seen him, either.” This voice was definitely male, a deep, gruff bass.
“What are you talking about? He’s right here!” she said, enraged.
“Who is it?” James shouted through the house.
“Can we speak with Mr. Johnson, then?” said the woman.
“Let them in,” James said. He walked up and placed his hand on her shoulder. He was wearing a bathrobe.
She opened the door. “You see? He’s right here!” she said.
“What are you talking about?” said the man.
“Jesus Christ!” said the woman, clutching at her nose. The man looked at her and then nodded.
“You mind if we take a look inside?” he said. The female officer stepped away from the door and was talking on the phone.
“Sure,” her husband said.
“Okay…” she said, her voice quaking. She stepped aside to let the man walk through.
He pinched his nose closed as he explored the home, breathing scarcely. She moused along behind him, peeking around his shoulders like she was afraid of what he’d find. He opened the bedroom door and then doubled back, gasping for air. He’d never smelled a week old corpse before.
“God damn!” he said. The other policeman entered with a knowing look on her face.
“The hearse’ll be here soon,” she said.
“What do you mean, hearse?” the woman said, panicking. Where had James disappeared to?
“Ma’am, you may want to sit down…” the man said. He motioned towards the sofa.
“What is going on? Where did my husband go!” she screamed. She panicked, pulling herself back to the wall.
“It’s just that… Your husband is dead,” said the female officer.
“He can’t be!” she screamed, “I mean, last night we…” She sobbed into her shirtsleeves.
“Don’t listen to them,” James said, his hand on her arm.
“But… but…” She knew the truth. It was too late. “No…” She sobbed and curled into a ball on the floor.
