3 comments/ 8216 views/ 1 favorites LOVE/Less By: dsoul This story is told in non-linear style, so please tread carefully.... 1. He lies stretched out across the bed, naked from the waist up – a brown-skinned Adonis – his finger beckoning her towards him. She stands there across the room, gazing and admiring every inch of his body – his near perfect, beautiful body – both hands clasping the handle of her handbag before her, looking every bit like a lost kindergarten schoolgirl. Her brow knots into a slight groove of deep ponder: what on earth is she doing here? Of course she knows the answer already and a part of her acknowledges the fact that her presence here is wrong, she's very much aware of this. She knows this just as much as she knows her name: Ann-Mary Owens, married to one Jeffery Owens, a practicing attorney of Law with a thriving tax firm – Guber, Johnson & Peters, located in the upper west-side district of the city. Who knows, one of these days he'll soon make senior partner, and then he'd find enough time to spend with her – enough time to make love to her and have breakfast in bed with her as much as she has always wanted. Who knows, they might even start thinking about raising kids when that happens. She's thirty-four years old, being married going on eight years now, and yet here she was, looking just as confused and bewildered at herself for standing here in another man's apartment a foot from his bed, somewhere in the downtown section of the city. A man whom she'd met one afternoon while having a lunch break two weeks ago. She shouldn't be here, she knows that, but here she indeed is. What would Jeffery be thinking right now if he ever got wind of her intention? But on the other hand, she's so lonesome and desperate. She feels her hands unconsciously let go of her handbag, hears it fall to the floor beside her feet. She takes first a step forward and then another, reaching out as well for her brown-skinned Adonis' hand. She comes towards him, reaching out to frantically grab hold of her aching heart. * * * * The world has stopped moving for her. She's been standing there for more than a minute now, staring at the row of stacked apples. This being the fruit and beverage aisle section in the Shop-Rite Supermarket, the one located along Odeo Drive. The apples are kept separate into different cart, based on their respective color. There's the green and the red. Not that she's got any intention of picking up any – her only reason being here in this supermarket was to pick up some broccoli, onions and green vegetables for the soup she intended preparing. But just as she was about heading towards the checkout counter with her intended items in hand, she'd stopped to stare at the apples, eerily captivated by their sight. She isn't interested in the green ones, but rather the red. She's more interested in the color as she stands there staring at them from behind her sunshades. Her shades possess large oval lens, nearly covering almost her entire face. She could've taken them off – after all, she is in a supermarket – but she'd rather not. Her eyes continue to focus on the red apples. They remind her of something ... (a hard smack across the nose) wicked ... most especially, something ... (she cried out from the pain and bites down on her tongue) so painful ... so painful inside (she raised a hand towards her nose, feeling the sharp pain there, realizing that she's bleeding) "Excuse me. Ma'am, are you all right?" The voice startles her suddenly as she instantly turns towards it. The young man hovers a foot behind her, a shy concerned look on his face. He's got on an attendant's uniform with the supermarket's logo stamped above his right pocket and the name JAMES written in bold letters for all to see beneath it. She attempts a quick smile as if to reassure him that she's all right, of course. Everything's just fine. "I'm fine, thanks. Perhaps you could be so kind as to assist me here," she says rather hesitantly, like a schoolgirl she once was, caught using her older sister's makeup for the first time. "I'd like to pick up some apples – the green ones." The young man returns her smile with a boyish one and saunters over to do her bidding. She picks up a dozen apples, drops them into her shopping cart and gives him another winning smile before making her way towards the checkout counter. A few minutes is all it takes for her to make her payment and exist the supermarket's doors into the open arms of daylight. She is wearing a brown jacket and dark-blue jeans. The jeans are tight enough to accentuate her body curves and her long legs. She is tall and possesses a reassuring shape that's still sure enough to turn heads. Her shoulder-length hair is tied in a bun behind her head. Her lips are thin and except for the redness of her lipstick, make her seem as if she's always pouting. She walks with an unhurried gait across the wide drive-through space in front of the supermarket as she makes her way with two shopping bags in hand towards the row of parked cars where her green Saab – green as the apples in her bag – is waiting for her. She reaches a hand up to push her glasses further up her nose, bending her face towards the ground, staring at her sandals, not wanting to catch the attention of anybody's hovering eyes. In no time she arrives at the front door of her car, unlocks it and throws her bags into the passenger seat before jumping in. She sits there not moving, listening to her excited breathing. She stares at her reflection for a moment in the mirror and then takes off her glasses and feels gently the dark circled spot around her left eye. She presses her finger against the spot but feels only the tiny hint of pain from it. At least it was a sure sign that much of it was going away. As she continues staring at her reflection, she can't help but wonder at this new look of hers and not feel much helpless about it. Inserting her key into the ignition she starts the engine, makes a reverse out of the parking lot and drives away, watching the large signboard of the supermarket – Shop-Rite Supermarket: The Best Shopping Mall Ever – recede further from view behind her rear-view mirror, feeling more like watching her former life – her former happiness – move further and further away from her. 2. "Nice to see you here again, Ann," the doctor begins in his typical warm and reassuring voice, taking his seat across from her. His name is John M. MacDonald, a self-practicing psychologist, though when in the working midst of his clients he so much prefers them to call him by his first name. He is robust in frame with a face that looks quite befitting for any would-be Father Christmas, and he's just as gentle both in manner and approach – something he has cultivated over time to the satisfaction and often detriment of his numerous clients. He takes out a ballpoint pen from his white jacket pocket, clicks the end at the same time reaches for a clipboard lying on the table beside his chair, ready for her to begin. Ann sits with her feet folded on the couch, leaning an elbow on her seat's arm with her head resting on her palm, staring back at him from behind her large pair of shades, but not actually seeing him. In her mind's eye, she unremittingly relieves through everything that had occurred to her only a few hours ago. In the video screen behind her eyes, she replays episode of the beating, hears her cry out ... hears Jeffery's voice, usually docile, but this time yelling at her – HOW COULD YOU DO SUCH A THING, MARY? WHY? – a sharp smack to her face, followed by a sharp explosion of pain in her mouth ... then everything turns blank. She takes off her shades, revealing the cut lower lip and the dark spot above her left eye. The doctor makes a face at the sight of this and reaches towards her. "My God! What happened, Ann?" She takes her time before speaking, even though it felt kind of hard to speak about it. "Jeffery and I had a fight. Obviously he found out somehow about myself and Quincy. Even followed me the last time I stopped at his place." "That's grounds for an assault, you know that." "So does infidelity. Anyway, I guess I was begging for it to happen." "I'm so sorry to hear that. Is the pain serious? Would you like for me to call you a cab to take you to the hospital?" "No, it's all right," she folds her glasses and drops it on her lap, struggling to give him a look of assurance. "I would like for us to continue where we stopped, John. Though I think this will be my final appointment." * * * * She still remembers the first time they met; the day comes to her like a dream: Her eyes set up on him the moment he stepped into the café shop, though for some reason when she later made time to reflect on it, she never could make up her mind really why she'd chosen that moment to look up from her Elmore Leonard novel, since of course he wasn't the only costumer to walk in while she was there. He was tall, African-American and athletic, with a handsome face, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and matching pair of jeans. He walks in with a large brown package nestled in the crook of his right arm and stops right there at the threshold of the shop, his face scanning around for any free table in his sight. He soon spots Ann-Mary's free chair across from her; that being the only free chair around aside from going over to sit by the long table counter. Once again she looks up, seeing him standing there, but quickly returns her gaze to its former place. From her peripheral view she watches him approach her table and imperceptibly feels a sudden jerk in rhythm travel through her body. A confused web of déjà vu instantly percolates her thoughts – was this some sort of coincidence or could she possibly have run into this man someplace or sometime before? She forces herself to keep on with her reading while her free hand reaches for her cup of coffee. "'Cuse me miss, but is this seat taken?" She looks up at him and her eyes are immediately captured by the magnetic gaze of his brown eyes while his other hand indicates at the free chair opposite hers. She waves a hand telling him to help himself, which he does, first dropping his package beside his feet and then taking his cap off his head and slapping it on the table. A waitress appears approaches their table to take his order. He asks for a hamburger and hot tea and waits for his meal to arrive while she returns to her novel. Around them hovers the usual dull chatter of early afternoon lunch-breakers while outside the usual traffic moves on by. * * * * "I met someone today," she says with a smile and a glow on her cheeks. "Really?" Doctor John scribbles something on his clipboard page. "Where and when was this, if you don't mind my asking?" "At a café shop a block down from my office. I was on my lunch break." "With the way you're smiling it seems he must really have made an impression." "Well ... you could say that." "That's nice to know. So, how did both of you get to meet?" A shy laugh, then: "Well, if you really want to know, he came and sat across from me, and then he said ..." "Sorry, but I never figured white women read Leonard," the young man says, startling her from her reading. She looks up from the books' pages at his smiling features; she's at first at a momentary lose on how to respond. "Pardon me?" He notes the puzzled look on her face and makes for a quick adjustment. "Sorry for disturbing you, I couldn't help but notice the book you're reading. Elmore Leonard, right? I said I never figured white women such as yourself ever read his books before." Were it not for the openness of his face, most likely she would've mistaken his words for an insult. Afterwords, when she makes time to reflect on it, she'll be glad that she didn't. "Really? And what would you prefer us white women to be reading – the average Mills and Boons stories?" she doesn't mean to sound sardonic with her remark, but she can't help her response, and he seems to sense it. "I didn't mean to sound offensive with what I earlier said. I'm sorry if I did." "Your apology's noted, now how about you answering my question." "Hope you won't bite if I do." She shrugs. "Depends on what you have in mind." "Alright there, I was going to say Sidney Sheldon or Ann Rice, but if you object," he waves a hand in the air, leaving her with whatever answer she prefers. He picks up his tea and takes a sip. His plate lies empty aside from the few crumbs to signify the remains of his hamburger. "You enjoy Ann Rice?" she throws the question at him. He makes a wry face at this. "I'm not much into Gothic horror – I'd seat well with instead a James Ellroy." "How about King," she said. "Stephen King, I mean. You read any of his?" He shakes his head. "Love the movies that bear his name though. First time I watched that film Misery, I couldn't sleep for a week." "Really? I haven't seen that one. But you know, not all of Ann Rice's books are horror." "Really? I didn't know that." She can't help but laugh. ___________ "Mind telling me his name?" John asks in his soft manner, his pen poised above his clipboard, waiting for her to speak. She is nervous at first, feeling too guarded of herself. She know she shouldn't – but it seems hard for her at first. It's been a week and a half since she signed up for his therapy lessons and just as when they began, he'd confidingly reassures her that whatever information she divulges to him will be kept wholly between both of them and for no one else's eyes or ears. She recalls his words and takes adequate strength from reliving them, and takes little time loosening herself to him once again. "His name is Quincy." "Quincy, as in like Quincy Jones?" he offers this with a smile, merely to further loosen her up. Dutifully, she relaxes to the joke with a laugh. "No, he's just Quincy – no relation to the other, mind you." "With a name like that I'll bet he's a jazz fan." She laughs at his witty statement, taking more comfort from it. "I wouldn't really know. I'd have to ask him about that." "Of course you would. So, tell me a bit more about your new friend Quincy. what does he do for a living?" "He's a software technician. Owns an electronic emporium downtown." "Young, dark and handsome and independent, you mean?" She makes a shrug. "What else can anyone ask for?" "Tell me what you like about him?" She looks about his head, takes a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. "He's funny ... very charming type of guy, and he's a good listener." "Hope you don't take any offense in my saying this, but hope you don't think he was there to like hit on your or something." "I wouldn't really know that now would I? Though I doubt it. I'd have noticed if he was." "There's lots of guys like that around you know. A lot of them I hear like preying on alone women. Especially married ones." "Well let's hope then that he isn't." John turns to his open pages and scribbles down something before returning to her. "Would it be wrong if I assume that you'll no doubt be seeing him again?" She doesn't answer, but she doesn't have to; her shy smile and laugh does it all for her. 3. She cruises into the cobbled driveway that is her home and stops a foot from the garage door. It's obvious that Jeffery isn't back yet – his Mercedes would be parked in front of the house if he were. She checks her watch. It's already half past four. He won't be back till another hour at most, that's if there isn't any late hour meeting to keep till nine or thereabouts. How relieved it makes her feel; at least she'll have enough time on hand to thoroughly clean herself up before he arrives. A minute goes by as she sits there listening to the idle sound of the engine before finally giving strength to her hand to turn off the ignition. She steps out of the car and walks towards the front door of their lush suburban abode. Inserting her key into the lock, she suddenly stops and turns around. She cocks her head at an angle, as if straining whether at all to catch something, but all her ear captures is the mellow evening breeze ruffling her lengthy auburn hair, coupled with the distant playing cries of children no doubt coming from the neighbor's house beside theirs. Her finger turns the key and she walks past the door and slams it behind her. Walking through the short corridor, she turns left into the sitting room. Everywhere is silent, deep quiet. She loathes the silence as much as she loathes finding herself inside it. She moves towards the stereo system, selects a Celine Dion CD from their album collection and inserts it into the stereo player. She presses the PLAY button and stands there, letting the music envelope and bounce round the walls of the room before making her way into the rest of the house. She climbs up the stairs and opens the door of the master bedroom – hers' and Jeffery's final sanctuary. She takes off her clothes and heads into the bathroom for a shower. As the hot water falls down on her, washing the soapsuds off her body, she runs her hands softly, delicately, all around her body, her mind still recalling the imprint of Quincy's touch when he had made love to her. It's almost as if he's here in the bathroom with her, still giving her pleasure after pleasure with every part of his body. She runs her hand from her breasts – playing with her suddenly erect nipples – down past her navel region, raising her face towards the falling waters from the shower, feeling a deep moan escape her throat. Never has she felt such a feeling before, never once since she'd been married to Jeffery. It's almost like being alive for the very first time in her adult life. A long time ago she knows she has once been bestirred with such feeling; where or under which rock it must have gone and hidden under away from her she can never tell. She finishes with her bathing and picks up her towel and returns to the bedroom, drying herself off before searching out a pair of house clothes to put on, but not before picking up everything she had worn earlier and dropping them into the laundry basket. She reminded herself that it wouldn't be wise leaving them around for her husband to accidentally stumble upon; who knows whatever damning evidence they still carry to announce that she had spent half of her day in the comfort of another man. Done with her clothes, she heads down to the kitchen to start preparing supper. Jeffery, she knows out of mundane habit, will be mighty disappointed with her if he returns home with nothing waiting for him. She washes the vegetables and carrots in the sink before taking them to the counter and starts cutting them up. A small stereo deck sits on the kitchen table, and the enchanting voice of Enya floats out of the speakers. She is deep in the middle of her cutting when something makes her to suddenly stop. And then she reflects. * * * * "I always wanted to become a dancer," she says with her mouth partly full of chocolate ice cream, staring across from the protective railing out at the massive boats that lined the docking quay at the far corner of the bay, too nervous to stare into Quincy's eyes for fear of what she might see or for whatever sense of perception – whether good or bad – she might get from them. But whatever could she be so afraid of: it's another lovely Thursday afternoon, this being their second rendezvous meeting. Before they parted ways the other day, he'd asked if there was by any chance they could meet again and if possibly converse more on Elmore Leonard. Of course they'd been a dark notion lurking underneath and right there and then, she'd so much wanted to tell him no. Still, her lips had felt heavy when she finally told him yes. In the end she'd written out her cell phone number for him, though with a dire warning never to call once it's past four; she needn't have said such – one glance at the ring on her finger was well enough to convince him of being discreet. It wasn't surprising at all after departing from him to ask herself the number one foreboding question – what on earth do you think you're doing, Ann-Mary? – And for some reason couldn't come up with an acceptable answer. In a way, it felt naughty. LOVE/Less There she was, sitting behind her desk, going through a sales data report for the cosmetics agency, her eyes momentarily lost on the stats and numbers staring back at her on her computer screen when her cell phone began ringing from inside her handbag, momentarily startled her. It was Quincy, asking, or rather pleading, if she would accept his offer of meeting her for her usual lunch break at Igor's Place, located off Plaza Avenue, close to the riverside harbor. So sudden and so unexpected, her mind speedily jumbled at the thought of whatever implications were bound to result from her attempting to indulge in such a break from her normal life pattern. She'd so much wanted to turn him down with a flat no: it really was nice meeting you the other day, but as you already know, I married – being married for eight years now – and I'm very sorry for ever wasting your precious time, but I hope you won't take it too hard if I ask that you never call me anymore, and I'd like to implore you that after hanging you to please delete my number from your mind and pretend I never gave it to you. Thank you very much and goodbye. This is exactly what she ought to have said after listening to his proposal, but instead what came out of her mouth was a smile and then an acceptance to meet him for lunch in half an hour's time. So here they now are, having first eaten a hearty meal then decided to have some ice cream from a vendor seller and take a short stroll round this side of the area. She runs a hand on her hair to stifle it from being disturbed by the presence of the strong gust of wind while Quincy leans forward on the metal rail, waiting for her to continue. "My dream was to become a ballet dancer. I must have seen Dirty Dancing a dozen times and so much wanted to dance the way that girl did with Patrick Swayze. I had a deep crush on him when I was little." "No harm in that." She looked at him. "Are you mocking me, Quincy?" "Goodness gracious, no. Tell me more, please." "Well ... I always saw myself as a chorus girl on Broadway ... dancing in a production of Cats." "A lovely dream. So, what happened?" A shrug and then: "My father is what happened. He caught a stroke a month before I was to audition for dance school. Just my luck that I was the only one around to take care of him so I never made it. He never recovered anyway. A year later he passed away and that was the end of my dancing notion." "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened after?" "The world around me changed, and I guess in a way I changed along with it. Went in for a degree in Marketing and here I am, working in a cosmetics agency." "Sounds more like an interesting work, if you ask me," Quincy says and takes a sip off the cone of his strawberry ice cream. "Back when I was a kid, I always wanted to be a sailor. I spent so much time in the library soaking up as much geography text books I could get my hands on, dreaming of heading out to places far from here. Hopefully discover my own El-Dorado if possible." "What stopped you?" she asked. He shrugged indifferently. "Just like you, the world changed and I too had to change with it. Discovered I had a knack for anything electrical and before you knew it, I was fixing everything in the house my folks saved up enough money from not calling the local repairman. Somewhere along the line, I discovered computers and since then life's been different for me." "Just how different has it been?" He makes a face and waves a hand indifferently before her. "Not always as I expected it would be – a lot of downs and less ups, but I have no complains. No use having one in this life. How about you?" She's unprepared for such a question and for a moment is torn between whether or not to answer. She turns her face away from him and stares back at the distant ships in the bay waters. Raising her cone of ice cream cone to her face, she takes a couple of licks from it instead. Quincy, it seems, is a bit nervous whether or not he had said the wrong line and does right not to repeat the question. Scratching an itch under his face cap, he follows her mode and continues to lean on the rail. A moment goes by, as numerous folks hover and walk past them before she returns back to him. "I'm surprised to see you're still with this funny hat of yours," she smiles at him. "You look so much like a Canadian fisherman." He fingers the cap and returns her smile with one of his, feeling enormously glad that he hadn't upset her after all. "A birthday gift from a former friend of mine." "How long have you had it?" "Over a year plus, I think. Can't actually remember. Still surprised I haven't lost it all this while." "Male or female, this friend of yours?" "Female." A hammer suddenly strikes upon her heart. "And where's this former lady friend of yours?" "Wouldn't know. We broke up and went our separate ways about a year ago." "How did you take it?" "I can't really say; somethings aren't just meant to be, I guess. I was a bit naïveté at the time. I wanted to settle down and start up a family, but she wanted to head on back to college. There was nothing I could do to win her back. We shook hands, wished each other good luck and that was it." "You say it like it was that simple, saying goodbye to someone you've known." "There's nothing simple about it," he says. "She wanted her own life and we couldn't agree on things. It hurt when I used to think about on it, but like they say 'Time heals all wounds.'" "Probably felt you were putting a rush on her." "I felt the same way, too. I figured the best thing was that I leave her alone." "I'm sorry things went different for you." She feels herself staring down at her feet while she says this. Then Quincy's hand falls beneath her chin and lightly raises it up till their eyes are burning into each others' – blue into brown – and then he says with a measure of irony: "You didn't know me back then, so you've got nothing to be sorry about." "I know. Just that it feels as if I've known you a long time already, even though we just met less than thirty-six hours ago. Doesn't that seem a bit strange to you?" "Strange, maybe. But only when I make time out to think about it." "And since then have you?" her voice sounded deep and yearning. "I've thought of nothing else since yesterday aside from you." They stand there while around them the city and the world moves on by; her hand gently steals its way upon his and holds it in a lingering grasp. ____________ It's her first scheduled visit being with Doctor MacDonald, and for some reason she steps into his office unscripted, unfocused and in a fleeting manner, totally unprepared. It's almost as if she'd woken up and planned everything this way. Today is a Saturday – Jeffery's a seven-day-a-week workaholic so he wouldn't be missing her when he's probably right now attending to some wealthy client, the type that's constantly searching for some loophole in some contract as an excuse to conceal some chunk of change from someone else's eyes – usually the government – and requires the services of someone more proficient in such cases to help him out. If ever he needs to hear the sound of her voice while taking a breather from behind his study room's locked doors – which is something he seldom indulged in – he's got her number, so why would be bother about checking up on her? And if for some reason he gets curious about where she is or what she's doing, there's a handful of excuses she can always choose from: down at the hair salon, fixing her hair, getting her nails done, sitting at home reading a book or watching a movie ... anything besides saying she's here, lying on a couch in a therapists' office, purging herself of whatever pain or burdening feeling that's gnawing at her while he sits across from her jutting down whatever as her lips endlessly divulge her thoughts into words. "The truth is doc, I'm not happy." She begins forlornly as if letting him in on a personal secret. For a moment it feels more like they're friends from high school having a coincidental meeting to catch up on yester-years. "I haven't been happy with myself for a long time now. It's more like I've run out of love." "Out of love for whom?" "Myself, my life ... and my marriage ... and just about everything." "Sounds like you've been suppressing this." "Indeed I have. I just feel ... I feel if there's any place I can get it out of my system it must be here." "A wise decision. Tell me how long have you been having this feeling?" She sighs. "Being over a year now. Just last week, I was driving home from work and suddenly I got this shocking vibe running in me. I got off the Deville Expressway and drove into a cul-de-sac street. I didn't even know where I was and at that moment it never really occurred to me to wonder about that. I held the steering wheel and then suddenly I started crying. It was so scary 'cause I've never known myself to be much of an emotional woman, but there I was right there, parked in some corner of the city, crying my eyes off like a little girl and yet I knew not what I was crying for or about." "How did you feel about you were done with your crying?" She searches for an answer, and says: "Relieved, I guess. I don't know really ... just that I kind of felt a bit different. Not like when I'd woke up that morning." "What did you do afterwards? Did you drive to someplace else, somewhere to unwind?" She shakes her head. "I went home; straight home." MacDonald scribbles something on his pad. "Have you been passing through some form of stress lately, either at work or home?" "It has nothing to do with work, but a lot to do with silence. Lots and lots of silence I get whenever I'm at home, most especially whenever Jeffery's with me. There's just so much space between us, it's more like the Grand Canyon now, and every passing day it keeps growing wider and I feel so choked up by it." "Forgive me for asking this but, how's the sex like between you two?" She blurts a sudden laugh. "The last time Jeffery and I had what you'd call smashing sex was way before before 9/11 occurred, so you can how far back it's been. Since then it's mostly just work and more work for him, even during the weekends. He often locks himself up in his study and doesn't come out till I'm long asleep, and even the few times he allows himself to do it, it barely lasts a minute before he drops off to sleep and I end up cursing him in my dreams." "You think he's got someone on the side?" "I wouldn't really know. He keeps a lot of himself to himself; but somehow I doubt it." "You ever approached him about it? I mean about the feelings you've been getting?" "I tried several times, believe me I have. All the time he shrugs me off and tells me I'm going through a blue period that'll soon pass, that's all." "How about the two of you coming to some sort of compromise and making time out for yourselves." "The only spare time my husband can ever make is when he comes home late from work and goes straight to bed. There's barely any pause for me." "You said earlier that you doubt he's seeing someone else, what makes you think such?" "i can't really say for sure, except Jeffery's such an open box to read. If he's got someone else on the side, I'd have long known about it." "Ever thought about leaving him – getting yourself a divorce?" A long sigh escapes her lips while she continues staring up at the ceiling. "I've thought about it too, but every time I keep pushing it away. I don't know if it's the right choice or not, I just know that for a long time now, I've been so lonely with myself and I hate it. I hate it so much." 4. Celine Dion has long been replaced with someone else. Having finished fixing dinner a long time ago and having nothing else to occupy her time with, she goes over and lies on the long sofa, reading up the last few pages of her Elmore Leonard novel while slowly tapping her feet to the voice of George Michael crooning sonorously about a slut called Roxanne. The sky outside the curtained windows has long turned into a shade of midnight. The clock hanging high on the wall announces it as a quarter after ten as she continues with her usual vigil, waiting for her man to return home. It does take long for her to arrive at the last page of the book and thus closing it. "Another one gone," she mutters to herself with a sigh and then drops the book on the center table. She stretches her limbs and legs on the couch and opens her mouth for a yawn. Feeling the need for a little sleep, she closes her eyes and her thoughts wander back to relieve the events of the afternoon. Her thoughts wander back to her time spent at Quincy's apartment. Back to being in his bedroom, feeling herself lost but at the same time much needed between his black pair of arms. Her lips curl imperceptibly into a smile as in her mind's eye she rewinds the tape of their meeting to start from the beginning and plays through to the scene where she'd surrendered herself to him. She watches herself being explored by his lips as his hands explored and groped her body ... seeing her clothes come off her skin while she stands there before him, letting him run his fingers through every hilltop, valley and hidden crevice that was her yearning anatomy ... soaking up the exciting pleasure of his body heat as their skin touch. Even now as she lies stretched on the sofa, even after having a final bath for the day, she can still feel every leftover of him when he had entered her, filling her up ... Her eyes come open and the movie playing in her mind suddenly dies away as her ears pick up the sound of a key turning in the front door lock. She comes to her feet in time as the door comes open to reveal her husband Jeffery, carrying his jacket in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He sees her, gives her a smile which is followed by his mundane "Darling, I'm back home," announcement. His tie hangs askance on his white shirt, looking every bit as haggard as one who'd just returned from a distant travel yet who'd spent the last few hours in a titty bar. Although she never really knows if her husband lives a secret life as most married husbands undoubtedly do, she figures it will be nice if he does indulge himself in such. And to think that she'd been so lost in her daydreaming she hadn't even heard his sound entering the driveway. His smile grows till it becomes a grin. The grin remains on his features even as she comes over and hugs him and for a moment she's reminded of the once high school football jock whom she'd fallen head over heels for during her stint as a varsity college cheerleader. His presence with her right here and now puts all thoughts of Quincy to a distant cubicle of her mind, at least for the time being. She would keep everything about him tucked away in there until midnight when the coast becomes clear and then she'll bring everything about him out to the forefront of her mind. "Hey there, my sweet pretty lady," he gives her a kiss on the cheek. She perceives the familiar smell of whiskey and cigarettes on him. Except she knows very well that he never smokes. She asks him where he's been. "Sorry about the lateness, hon." He still carries the grin on his face, and it tells her the day has been a good one for him. She helps him with his jacket and together they make their way up the stairs to the bedroom. "I scored a victory with some out of state clients today and this was just their way of showing their appreciation. Hope you hadn't been waiting up too long?" Always he says this to her. It was more like his own way of apologizing for returning home late as usual without any thought of calling her earlier to inform her of his typical late coming. He slumps on the bed as she kneels before him, taking off his shoes and helping him out of his pants. She manages to hide the pain from her face. But that's not to say if her husband hadn't been in too much of a state to being sober he wouldn't have noticed it. Downstairs his meal has long grown cold lying in wait on the dinner table, just as George Michael having tired of Roxanne was now doing a melancholy number on Miss Sarajevo. * * * * His hand turns the key in the lock and there's the sound of the latch giving way. He pushes the door open and like a dutiful ushering English butler, he takes off his French cap, makes a courtesy bow like a troubadour and waves his hand for her to step into his abode. They have arrived together in Quincy's beat-up Ford at this four-story tenement building located on a cul-de-sac across from DeSoto Park. She'd left hers back at the office parking lot for fear of running into someone who might surprisingly recognize her car and wonder what on earth a person like herself would be doing here in a place such as this, in the downtown section of the city. During her break, she'd rendezvoused with Quincy at the cafe, but instead of them wasting time there, she'd decided to take him up on his offer of seeing his home and followed him here. If she's aware of whatever compulsion, be it conscious or otherwise, that's compelling her to be here with him, it's of little consideration. For her, it's simply the fact of satisfying whatever curious hungry demon lurking deep down inside her, everything else as of right now is of secondary importance. His living room looks and feels more like a growing storage room and the remains of a Chinaman's junk shop. Here and there, stacks of open TV and radio sets, computer hardware and rolls of colorful cable wires lying scattered and haphazard around the sparse furniture. The windows are open but the light filtering in isn't enough to spread its warmth and brightness upon every nook and cranny of the room. Much of everything is covered with large films of dust, giving off a musty fragrance of long time neglect. A chandelier hangs lopsided with its holding wire jutting off the center of the wall where it's connected. He evidently reads the thought that was running through her mind and gives her a shrug. "I know it ain't much, but it's what I call home for now," he says. She nods her head. "It's alright. Though it could do with a lady's touch." That breaks them off into joint laughter. Quincy, taking hold of her hand, leads her through the maze of cobbled stuff and leftover furniture to a passageway at the end of the room and from there it's a short walk till he opens the last door at the end and propels her into his inner sanctum. The bedroom is quite the opposite of the living room, everywhere neat and bright and welcoming. She is taken aback by the contrasting sight and he seems to notice it in her eyes. "Sorry about the mess out there," he said sheepishly. "Truth is, not all of those stuffs you saw are mine. The former tenants here never picked up all their stuff, and the landlord has never been a good sport to get rid of them. I've never been much of a good homeowner either to clean it up. Can I get you something to drink?" "No, thank you," she says. "I'm good." She stands there like a meek Cinderella in the center of his room, trying not to stare as he turns takes off first his jacket and undoes the buttons of his shirt. He throws them over the back of a chair and then takes off his shoes and the rest of his clothes till he's got on only his pair of briefs. Her eyes can't seem to take themselves off from sizing up the curves of his arm muscles, the bulge of his waistline outlining his ribs and torso ... and the noticable bulge that is his cock pushing against the fabric of his briefs. She feels herself quaking inside, like a mountain top waiting for just the right touch to unleash its load of eruption. She's very afraid of what's about to happen, but at the same time, she's anxious for it to happen. LOVE/Less He falls on the bed and turns to look at her. That's when he stretches his hand and beckons her towards him. * * * * "How long do you intend on carrying on with this secret tryst of yours?" MacDonald asks her after scribbling something down on his notepad. His tone of voice is devoid of any hint that might indicate him having prying interest into her affair. Remarkably she isn't bothered about his question. In fact, she more than welcomes it and she too was still struggling over the question with herself. More than a week has passed since that fateful afternoon she consummated with Quincy. She was still basking in the euphoria, full of round smiles and burgeoning happiness unlike her previous early visits. "I can't say I know the answer to that, John," she speaks coyly, a serene smile on her lips. "So much I hope it'll stay this way for maybe another week, or even till the end of the month ... I don't know. I dream of him a lot whenever I go to sleep at night." "What do you dream about that involves him?" "I don't know – whatever comes to my head. A recurring one is that he and I got into his car and just drove off out of the city, laughing and smiling and just being happy together with ourselves." "You know there's a word for that. It's called infatuation." "I don't think it's what I'm having," she says. "How sure can you be?" "I can't really say ... just the feeling I'm having. It's quite real to me." "Okay, we'll skip past that for now." Another round of scribbling with his pen. "In your dreams that you say you're having, is Jeffery ever in them?" She turns defensive. "It's my dream, John. He doesn't have to be in it if I don't let him to." "Have either of you made any attempts at rekindling your love making?" "We did the night before." "Any change or improvement?" She shakes her head. "All the while he was on top of me, all I thought about was Quincy. I barely even realized when he rolled off me, spewed much of himself all over my thighs." "We talked about you talking with him about your feelings during our former meeting. I guess you're yet to carry that out?" She is silent, contemplating for a moment, then: "Lately I've even been thinking about getting a divorce." "Are you sure that's something you want to do?" he asks. "I don't know, except I can't stop thinking about it." "For how long now?" "Being a while, I can't really say." "Is anyone else aware of this? Have you told Quincy about it?" Another shake of her head. "But you are thinking about it." To this she replies first with a nod. "yes, I'm seriously thinking about it." 5. They make love under the glow of candlelight. Their bodies drenched in sweat, slapping and grooving against each other's contrasting skin under the ruffled bed sheet. Her lips release a sensuous moan as his finds one of her breasts and he flicks his tongue upon her nipple. There is a fire burning inside her and it forces her body upon his. She rolls her thigh upon his. Her hand reaches down between his legs and guides his member into her labia opening while his hand continues to squeeze gently her breast as his teeth bites and nibbles on her nipple, exploding forth more and more excruciating warmth from within her. She leans her face forward and smashes her lips against his while his arms pull her upward. She now straddles him, feeling the overwhelming pressure of his manhood expanding her innards and within seconds she starts bouncing up and down his waistline. Her hands touch and caress every part of his muscled torso ... such beautiful creature he is. She is in love with everything about him. she tells him how beautiful he is; he says the same of her as his hands grasp her breasts and pull her body down towards his awaiting lips. Their bodies dance to a high-powered rhythm as their love-making becomes frantic. They switch position, both of them groaning and moaning against each other's face. He jerks his hips against hers, pushing his manhood further inside her, drawing a higher groan from inside her throat. They continue climbing up the wall of highness, their motion and want increasing with each smack of their thighs. In the dark corners of her mind, Ann-Mary reflects on everything and nothing. Her thoughts saturated only with the enveloping shroud of desire that's filing her up like a hydrogen balloon. She gazes into his eyes – blue eyes into brown – becomes one with him. Her body tenses from the rising tidal wave coming from within the well of her womb, roaring up like a propelled bullet as she arches her back away from him. Her lips screech out a piercing orgasmic cry ... her cries merges with his just as he ejaculates insides her ... and then as one they fall back to earth. She remains there shivering in her lover's arms, heart still heaving with desire as she kisses every flesh of his face, expressing endless love for every angel flying by to observe. They lie there in sated quietude, wrapped and lost in each other's arms under a candlelight glow. * * * * The house is lonesome and quiet and feels almost deserted. Her eyes are quick to take note of this just as she enters the driveway and turns off her engine. Jeffery isn't yet home waiting for her to return, like he had the day before when he'd confronted her about the affair. That's just as well. She's still weary from the yesterday's beating to want to deserve another. She steps out of the car, takes out the shopping bags of green vegetables and apples before closing the door. she stops to adjust the pair of shades on her face before approaching the front door, unlocking it and then stepping inside. Everything in the house is just as she had left it; everything in the house is just as it was yesterday and the day before; the burning incense she'd left on the center table before she went out is still alive. There's no sign of Jeffery anywhere. Again, that's just as well. She stands there for a moment, in the living room, with shopping bags in her hand, taking off her glasses to savour the comfort of the place she calls home, feeling every bit as undecided and confused as she'd been less than an hour ago when she was staring down at the apples (why did I even buy those stupid apples, anyway?). She approaches the stereo set, wanting to listen to some music. Her hand travels the length of album CDs stacked against each other in a cabinet beside the stereo set. Indecision plagues her thoughts and in fit of resignation drops down her hand and turns away from the set. She walked down the passage, past the staircase towards the kitchen where she empties her goods on top the table. She spends the next half hour putting the apples away inside the fridge, washing the green vegetables and broccoli but keeping it aside before existing the kitchen and head up the stairs to the master bedroom. Ann-Mary slumps down on the bed, holding her head in her hands. She's in desperate need of crying and lies there waiting for the tears and anguish to come forth from her eyes, for the pain lurking inside to unleash its fury and flood every nerve, tissue and organ in her anatomy with bereft and anger. A minute passes and then another and still no sign of tears fall from her eyes, nor does she feel any flooding pain; all she feels is numbness ... both in her mind and all over her body. She sniffles and pushes her blonde hair backwards, feeling her eyes round the room, but not actually seeing it. All she sees is Quincy. All she wants to think about is Quincy ... how he'd looked the last time they'd laid together: his strong arm draped across her, feeling his fingers tickle her ear while she snuggled against his chest, listening to the sound of his laughter, the tenderness of his words ... and to think that she will never see him ever again ... feel him ever again. She falls on the bed, staring up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan, attempting to grasp where everything had gone wrong. 6. It will be wrong to assume that Jeffery, her husband, all the while had been kept totally in the dark. More likely his thoughts were dully occupied with a lot of other things, but that's not to say he never once took notice or even speculated – at least to himself – about the expanding change, both in demeanor and manner of his wife since mid-August. Unlike before she often appeared more laid-back and reticent, more into herself. He'd known of course that the bulk of the fault was from him. He was too concerned with all what was going on in his office than making any attempt to shed some color into his marriage. It haunted him just about every night that he was finding it hard communicating with his wife ... that he was somehow losing her. Of course he'd made a promise of making it up to her. Just as soon as the promotion kicks in, he promised himself that he really would make it up to her – take her on a vacation trip, spend as much time with her as he possibly can and hopefully start making serious plans about having kids. He'd thought of all this and more. But he was very much aware of the change that was taking place around her. Her smile had brightened, her look, once used to being sad and thoughtful now full of life and sparkle. Of course he would've overlooked all this, except a gnawing feeling kept telling him that whatever new-found happiness she was getting, none of it was meant for him. One evening while they were having dinner, he'd started some conversation on the off chance of catching a feel of her current mood. "How about you and I taking the next weekend together," he said, though not sure of where the conversation might lead. "I was chatting with Bob earlier today – you remember Bob, don't you – anyway, he's just rented this lovely yacht that he wants to throw a sort of party on and he was talking about wanting us coming along. You know it's been a while since we spent time with them." She stared down at her plate for a moment, then replied: "By Bob, you mean the same senior partner of yours who kept looking under my skirt the last time he came round here?" He laughed. "You still have that against him." "It's not exactly the sort of thing anyone would forget." "Well, he's a changed man now. He was going through a rough time back then, with his divorce from Melanie, but he's clean and sober – he's even got himself a new lover now." "I'm surprised your firm never kicked him out." "He's good at what he does – just about one of the best tax attorneys the firm can ever afford to keep. It's going to be a shame if ever they decided to let him go. So, what do you say?" Her face snaps up to look at him; it's obvious that her thoughts are preoccupied by something else. But what exactly is what he wants to know. "Say what, darling?" she asks him. "I was talking about you and I spending next weekend together on Bob's boat. Let's try and get away from here for a while. What do you say?" She stammers with an answer. "Well, I can't say ... I don't know ... I've got some more accounting in the office to take care of ..." "You can always handle your papers before Friday," he insists. "It's been a while since you and I spent much time together, I just want to be with you this weekend. Is that too much to ask?" She is talking to herself: "No, it's not. We'll see, okay?" He was about saying something else but he's a second too late as she lowers her head and continues with her meal, leaving him sitting across from her, looking like a long lost baggage. It's enough to spoil the rest of the evening for him ... and also to get his thoughts all fired up. * * * * It's a Thursday evening, two days later, that he commits a crime. Such a silly puerile crime it is, one he hasn't attempted since he turned fifteen – yes, he was fifteen then, he still remembers – when his mother was busy gossiping on the phone with her erstwhile friend and cribbage partner, Mrs. DeVille who lived just down the block from their apartment building, while he, with a skipping heartbeat, helped himself to some spare change from her open purse that was on the kitchen table to be used later for a game or two at Eddy's Bowling Spot later the following afternoon. Had his mother been around to see him at it, most definitely she'd have skinned his hide and waited for his father to return from his job at the Cadbury factory to sprinkle some more salt on his behind while he sweated from the grille. It had been a lucky break for him, one he'd never again attempted. And yet here he is, right now, listening to the sound of his wife having her last shower for the night while like a professional burglar, his fingers unzip her handbag and dexterously peruse its contents for whatever secrets it might contain. A part of him explains that he's merely imaging things, dreaming up intrigue where there aren't any. Any yet ... there that wasn't a viable answer. Something really was happening, and he intends to find out what. His fingers skim past several make-up and facial paraphernalia, leaves her purse, credit cards and office keys untouched till digging deeper into a tiny partition by the side, unearthing a receipt of payment of five hundred Dollars to a certain John Macdonald M.D., Doctor of Psychiatry, with his address stated under his wife's recognizable scroll of a signature. A question comes on in his head like a light bulb in a dark room: since when did Ann-Mary start seeing a so-called Psychiatrist? The date of receipt answers that for him as being the twenty-fourth of July, three weeks from today. Another light bulb pops up in his head: could such a visit be any reason at all for her unusual strangeness around him? And what the hell would she be seeing a shrink for? He replaces the receipt and his fingers continue their rummaging. Then he unearths a plain card with a phone number and the name QUINCY written and underlined above it. Just in time he hears the diminishing sound of the shower, knowing his wife will soon be out, he memorizes the number and leaves her handbag in just the same manner he had found it and goes back to his own side of the bed, pretending to fall asleep while she dries herself up and comes over to join him. He clears off a load of work from his desk the following day, putting a majority of them away till Monday next week at the same time delegating the few remaining to his ever efficient and fastidious secretary, Jennifer, and before the dot of twelve noon, he grabs his jacket and is out of the office. He takes the elevator down to the lobby and heads for his Mercedes at the building's underground parking lot. Entering the city's traffic three minutes later, he circumnavigates his way across town till less than a half hour later he's parked at an advantageous position from where he has a clear view of the glass-proof doors leading into the cosmetic agency where his wife works at. A discreet phone call earlier to his wife's secretary before he'd left the office told him his wife was still locked up in her office and won't be stepping out for lunch till twelve-thirty. It's already a quarter after twelve. It's a good thing he'd left the office when he did. He reclines back in his seat, watching the traffic drone past him, feeling every bit like a detective. He can but but sense a shakiness in his bones as he sits there struggling with whatever he it is he's going to find before the afternoon is over. Twelve-thirty six and he's about throwing in the towel when the glass door pushes outward and there stands his Ann-Mary, looking demure and yet elegantly appropriate in a summer blouse, brown pants and matching jacket with a scarf round her neck and pair of shades steps out into the sun's glare and starts walking up the block. Jeffery steps out of his car and follows at a distant pace. He sees her turn round the end of the block and hurries across the street into a café/restaurant shop. He doesn't attempt going in after her, but instead follows her movement through the large glass windows as she stops before a table that's occupied by a young dark-skinned fellow. He watches as the black man rises up, takes off the cap sitting on her head and hugs her. She returns the hug with a smile and together they sit down holding hands. The realization dawns upon Jeffery's puckered brow. Quincy. No doubt, it's you. His mind is in a welter of rage, anger and despair. Whatever would give her the right to cheat on him, much less do it with some ... tramp? He's back in his office, having first stopped at a fast-food house to pick up some snacks, but even as he stands behind his desk, gazing out his window, the food remains neglected on his desk, looking more insipid for him to taste. He slaps a palm against the window pain, mutters a foul curse while his eyes endlessly playback everything he'd seen. He'd stayed hidden from plain sight and watched them. They hadn't stayed long in the café. He'd returned back to his car, driven a bit up the road but kept a wide distance, not intending against anything else that Ann-Mary might just accidentally spot him. He'd watched as she and the young man left the café, turned round the corner and entered into a crabby-looking Ford DeSoto and then driven off. It was the sort of car only a tramp would care to own. He'd followed them all the way, parked a short distance behind as he watched them park into a cul-de-sac corner, watched them step out, holding hands and smiling as they walked into a tenement building. Jeffery sat there, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, feeling so much like wanting to come out and murder someone. Even now as he stands here staring out his window he asks himself why he hadn't simply gone up and confronted both of them. God, it would have been nice right there and then to see the shocked look that would have been on Ann's face had he done just that. He takes out a folded paper from his pocket and looks at the number he had written down. It was the same number he had memorized from ransacking his wife's bag last night. He raises the paper to his face, staring at the numbers with malicious intent. It brings a smile to his face and once again he contemplates murder. 7. The man sitting across from him is tall, bulky and dangerous. Everything about him, from the dark jacket he's putting on to the deep scowl on his face reeks of danger and beware to anyone even thinking about trespassing his territory. Jeffery perceives this easily just as he stares into the expressionless blue eyes of the man. His name is Leon; no middle or last name, just Leon, with a slight accent about him that spoke of eastern European. A minute passes by and neither of them says anything. The waitress arrives with their drinks. Jeffery gulps down his scorch while Leon leaves his untouched and leans over on the table; his hands – large pair of dangerous hands – interlock their fingers against each other and listens like an attentive priest hearing a confessional to Jeffery's story. There are seated here in the back corner booth of a roadside titty bar situated close to the harbor. Behind them echoes rapturous bedlam of yells and excitement from evening costumers known to revel in such haunts. Jeffery stumbles for a moment upon his narrative as he begins, but as he delves further his words grow bolder in expectation. The man merely nods his head as he continues with his tale, not bothering to interrupt or read any assumptive holes in his words. It's amazing the kind of things or type of persons one can find on the internet, depending on how serious and diligent you apply your search. Anything from household items, precious metals and all kinds of reliable assistance of almost any and every kind, including adverts on how to find someone willing to do whatever hit-and-run or death-dealing job you desire ... as long as the price is right. Which is how the following Monday he's here meeting with one of such person at such an ungodly place and at such an ungodly hour – past eleven of midnight. He'd already called home telling Ann-Mary he's chocked up at the office and for her to go to sleep without waiting up for him. From the sound of her voice he assumed she was more than glad to do that. LOVE/Less Leon waits for almost a minute after he's done with his tale of wife-cheating before deciding to speak, and when he speaks, his voice is soft yet brooding, another dangerous sign from him. "What's the man's name?" "Quincy. That's the only name I have on him." "Does he have an address?" Jeffery takes a paper out of his pocket and slides it over to Leon's waiting hands. He takes a look at it, grunts and pockets it. "Going to cost you five grand." "No problem," Jeffery takes out a bundle from his inner jacket, deftly counts out a few and slaps it against Leon's glass. Slowly, as if being reluctant about it, Leon reaches for the wad of money, counts it first before throwing it into the same pocket as the paper with the address. Then he picks up his glass and empties it and gets up from his seat. "I'll be in touch," is all he says before existing out of the booth and from the out of the raucous noise of the clubhouse, leaving his hirer behind to order one more glass of scotch to succor his still throbbing mind. * * * * Her head rests on his shoulder while his hand plays with the locks of her hair. They lie there unmoving, naked under the bed sheet, staring up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan, listening to the gentle drone of passing vehicles emanating from outside the window. The silence in the room is just as comforting to her; so much she wishes she could carry if only a figment of it back home with her. "I mostly likely won't be seeing you till after this Sunday," she says softly, the fingers of her right hand caresses his chin, feeling the trace of beard that lines his face. "Sunday's four days away. What's going to keep you away till then?" "It's my husband, Jeffery." She feels a slight stiffen in his hand; all the while they've been together it's been like an unwritten rule not to mention anything concerning her married life, neither has she so much as bothered asking if he was actually seeing anyone else other than her. Of course, it would be nice to know, but then again, it wouldn't. She waits a minute before continuing: "He wants us to spend the weekend together at a friend's yacht. I thought I could push it off but ..." He makes the decision for her: "You shouldn't, that would only make him suspicious. Go and spend the weekend with him, and when you're through you can always stop by and tell me all about it." She turns her head at him. "You sure you wouldn't mind? I can't stand the thought of being away from you, even if for a day – I'm scared of losing you." For an answer, he pulls her upwards and covers her lips with his, feeling her body respond under his arms. 8. The man called Leon adjusts the Yankees cap further down his face before lighting another cigarette after the growing pile in his ashtray and continuing with his observation of the tenement building from the dark confines of a white-colored Chevy Pick-up parked in the alleyway of a Chinese junk shop. He's been sitting here since noon. He had observed the woman and her companion arrive and entered the building, and though that was more like two hours ago, but to him it feels more like twenty minutes. This isn't his first time of applying for such a work and over the period of years of grown reputation, he's gotten quite used to the numerous side attractions of the job, one of them being the almost endless wait for the right moment of visit, which is what he's sitting here for. To him it's more like the parable of the patient dog consuming the fattest bone. He was the dog, ever waiting in patience, while the intended victim as usual is the bone, and no matter the outcome, one of them is going to turn out lucky in the end. It's 3:23 p.m. by his watch when he sights the woman leaving the building. From an upstairs window he spots his intended victim appear and wave a hand down at her. She waves back at him and then crosses the street and flags down a taxi. Leon watches her jump in and drive off; the sees his victim – his bone – disappear into the interior of the window. He gives an extra two minutes before extinguishing his cigarette and stepping out of his pick-up truck. He puts on a pair of black rubber gloves before taking out a baseball bat from the corner of the passenger seat and locking the door behind him. He waits till the street is just about empty with no one hovering about to see him before ambling across the street, the baseball bat sidled against his armpit so as not to noticed by even the keenest observer, and walking past the open doors into the dark lobby of the apartment building. On silent and quickened feet, he makes his way up the stairs – not bothering with the passenger lift – to the third floor where he already knows his man's apartment is on. The number on his door says Room 7. Once again adjusting the cap on his face, his left hand grasped tight on the bat, he raises his right hand to the doorbell, hearing a distant ringing coming from within. In no time comes the approaching sound of feet and then he feels and hears it stop at the other side. * * * * Quincy has a towel wrapped round his waist and is about to jump into the bathroom when he hears the ringing doorbell. His first thought is that Ann-Mary has most likely forgotten something – her house keys, perhaps – and had hurried on back to pick it up. Forgetting the shower's running water, he heads past the living room towards the door, fumbles for the lock and pushes the door open. It takes less than a second for the smile on his face to diminish. The last thought on his mind is that whoever this person is, he's got the wrong room – the dopey Rodriguez clan reside just down the hall from him. This is what's about to come off his lips when the strange man in the thick clothes and Yankees cap unearths a baseball bat to his face, whispers something to him – hey there Quincy, my bone – before swinging the bat upon him, exploding both darkness and pain upon him. The last thing he consciously sees while lying sprawled across the floor is the door closing behind a pair of feet as a bat swings forward like a horse, carrying tales of permanent goodnight on its back. * * * * And such is how the cookie crumbles: Ann-Mary returns home a little past five in the evening. She opens the door and is startled to find Jeffery seated on his favorite chair. He sits there with his shirt partly open, his eyes focused coldly upon her. She sees this in his eyes and knows already that something's wrong. There's a glass with an opened bottle of bourbon standing on the coffee table beside his chair. She takes faltering steps into the living room and halts with only the table separating them. "Jeffery ... you're home early, what's up?" He speaks in a slow tight voice: "I thought I'd come round to settle something ... some gulf between both of us." "What gulf are you talking about?" And then like a magician performing a trick, he turns up his right hand and out comes a card which he then flips towards her. It lands close to her feet; she doesn't need to pick it up to see the familiar name of her lover and his number scrolled under it to know that her moment of truth has just come to a crossroad. She's still gazing down at the card and doesn't hear her husband rise from his chair. By the time she turns to look at him, he's standing a foot from her, his face squeezed into a mask of throbbing menace just waiting to be unleashed. And then she glances down and notices the folded belt in his hand. She only has time to blurt out "WAI –" before the hand comes up and she feels the weight of the belt lash on her face and she slumps to the carpet. He hovers over her raining down furious blows, yelling down at her: "HOW COULD YOU GO AND DO SUCH A THING, ANN? HOW COULD YOU ... WHY SHOULD YOU? ..." She does nothing, not even make any attempt at fighting back, except cry out from each falling lash and continue to accept her punishment. For a moment it felt as if the beating would never end. From that night, they sleep in separate rooms. The weekend came and went almost forgotten with neither of them barely setting eyes on each other; they never made the engagement to Bob's yacht. 9. That was three days ago. So here she is, still lying in the bed, her eyes observing the ceiling fan's spinning blades, asking herself the Million Dollar Question: what next? You going to pack up and leave, most likely seek a divorce and move on with your life, or are you going to continue acting meek and seek forgiveness? Say maybe that even happens ... what next? Is everything going to return to what it once was with Jeffery? The dilemma rages like a typhoon in her head, giving her no space for solace or comfort, except for a mild headache. She hadn't been to the office since the week began. She'd called and told them that she had a serious flu and was on serious medication and won't be able to make an appearance at least for another week; she was granted two. And what about Quincy? She hadn't heard from him since that fateful day and ringing his phone hadn't helped any at all. Instead of the sound of his voice, all she'd gotten was a toneless feminine operator telling her that the number no longer exists anymore. After leaving MacDonald's office yesterday for her final therapy session, she'd driven over to his apartment building and gone up to the flat where he lived only to find his door permanently boarded up as if they hadn't been anyone residing there before. Even the landlord's answer had been too vague to and unyielding to satisfy her questions: sorry ma'am, but what can I say – dude just upped and left. He ain't the first Johnson in here and believe me, I've seen 'em all. Guess he just got tired of stayin' in these here parts. She'd as well stopped by his software emporium and found nothing except a WE'RE CLOSED signboard staring back at her from behind its meshed front door. The question is still staring at her in the face and suddenly she comes to a decision, one she knows there will be no going back from. She pushes herself up from the bed and goes over to open the double doors of her closet. Nestled in a corner lying beside a pair of her husband's golf shoes lies a traveling bag that hadn't been used by either of them in a long while. She picks it up and takes it into the bathroom to wash off the film of dust that lay over it. 10. "So, what are you going to do now?" it's John putting the question to her as the inevitably arrive close to the end of their final chit-chatting session. "I'm going to divorce him," she answers with a straight face; fingering her shades which lie on her lap. "I've spent so much nights thinking about it, and it think it's the only answer I can come up with. But I don't yet know if it's the right answer." Then she throws the question back at him. "What do you think, John? Would that be the right thing to do?" "That's an unprofessional answer for me to give." "It's not an answer I want from you," she says. "I want your opinion, professional or otherwise." "Is you mind seriously made up on this, regardless of whether or not I disprove of it?" "It is." "Then I guess you'd better take it, whichever way you want." "That's just the type of answer I was expecting to hear from you." "Have you told him about it yet?" She shakes her head. "I'll make it out as a surprise. First, I'd like to get as far away from that house as possible. I can't take another day of being there." "How about a divorce lawyer? I can recommend one for you if you wish ..." "It's okay, I'll take care of that. And besides, I doubt if I'll be wanting much from him." "Hmmmm, looks like you're going to be doing alright then." She laughs, feeling the first sign of happiness since the week began. Haphazardly, she throws in whatever she could lay her hands on into the open mouth of the bag, but leaves the heavy stuff behind, knowing she'd come right back for them once she's settled. She leaves a short note for Jeffery on the living room's center table detailing her intentions for a divorce and also for him not to bother waiting up for her, since she won't be coming back ... at least not tonight. She leaves the car keys for him on the table as well before switching off the lights round the house and existing past the front door and walks towards the front of the driveway. It doesn't take long before she spots a cruising empty taxi and flags it down. She has not appropriate destination on mind at the moment so instead informs the man behind the wheel to merely drive on. She watches the house disappear behind her, feeling a life she'd once have part ways with her. And that's when her eyes come alive with tears, but whatever she was crying for, she couldn't figure. Perhaps it's for a future still too far away to be seen.