Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2013 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
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and—on impulse— a six pack of Carlsberg Elefant. Then over to the florist section and the purchase of a dozen roses.
Ten minutes max in and out. The June sun was still above the horizon but below the span of the bridge. Tim treated himself to a transfixed thirty seconds of splendid sky, then trucked out of the parking lot for a try at the bridge before the sun drowned itself in the Pacific.
A miss on that one, but the afterglow remained, carrying him much of the way home. He was at the front door by eight.
Smells of basil and marjoram. Any number of hearty and appealing Genoese images could as easily come to mind, but Tim found himself haunted by the thought of bloody Sicilian vendettas. He headed for the kitchen.
A wooden spoon cracked under his shoe, heralding his arrival. He kicked it aside and went over to Marilee at the stove.
"Let's have a kiss."
She turned her face up to him, saw the roses and burst into tears.
"See if I do that again!" He laid the flowers, beer and wine on the counter. "Okay— I still want that kiss."
He got that, and a head buried in his shoulder. The tears stopped after a moment, but not before wetting his shirt.
"Whatever it is, it's not going to ruin our night. Let's hear it, deal with it, and get it out of the way."
"It's that stupid Jenny Cartwright."
"I've taken her phone messages. She's your new client, right?"
"Was. She told me she needed a personal trainer who can run with her."
Tim twisted the cap off a Carlsberg Elefant, took a pull and handed it to Marilee.
"Insensitive bitch. Goddamit, you can wheel faster than she can run!"
"That's what I told her, then she started some bullshit about having to make eye contact and not wanting to look down on her trainer—
down on,
for Christ's sake!— while running, and I told her to stick it where she couldn't see it from any angle."
Tim sputtered and laughed through his second pull at the beer.
"You said that? I'd say you gave better than you got."
"Maybe so." Marilee gave him the first smile he'd seen that evening, followed by her own laugh. "But I'd rather not have had the set up line."
"Granted. And now let's address that fine dinner you're making, and I'll open this wine for the table. Not that we can't have a Carlsberg or two while we're waiting."
"We'll get sloshed."
Tim nodded.
A dinner to be savored. They ate slowly, with appreciation of the food and the cabernet. Tim told her about the resurrection of the Dennison case and his new Danish colleagues—his introduction to Carlsberg Elefant at the Buena Vista with Chris Juul, and his impressions of the marathon running Bente Flindt. Marilee took it in and got caught up in his narrative.
"I'd like to meet them," she said.
"I was thinking of asking them to dinner. Maybe on a day I can knock off early and cook."
"Oh?—this not up to continental standards?"
"Better," he said, looking into eyes that were mischievous and no longer teary.
After dinner Tim stacked the dishes while Marilee took over the bedroom and its bath. She clearly needed to be held and cuddled, possibly made love to. He'd give her enough time to catheterize and void herself, then set the mood and attire for however she wanted to present herself. He looked out the kitchen window to their walnut trees, the moon up and silvering leaves that had been springtime green two hours ago. He imaged Marilee's hair splayed out on the floral pattern of their summer linen.
He walked the hallway toward the bedroom, grudging the necessary detour to his office. He turned on the computer, and while it booted up he called Conerly's home and again got kicked over to voicemail. This time Tim stated who he was and asked Conerly to call him at his office number in the morning hours.
Then a quick check of incoming email. First up was the latest fusillade from the Death Penalty Advocacy Union. It was for Marilee, of course, a plea for her testimony during the penalty phase of her assailant's trial. This one referenced
Ten minutes max in and out. The June sun was still above the horizon but below the span of the bridge. Tim treated himself to a transfixed thirty seconds of splendid sky, then trucked out of the parking lot for a try at the bridge before the sun drowned itself in the Pacific.
A miss on that one, but the afterglow remained, carrying him much of the way home. He was at the front door by eight.
Smells of basil and marjoram. Any number of hearty and appealing Genoese images could as easily come to mind, but Tim found himself haunted by the thought of bloody Sicilian vendettas. He headed for the kitchen.
A wooden spoon cracked under his shoe, heralding his arrival. He kicked it aside and went over to Marilee at the stove.
"Let's have a kiss."
She turned her face up to him, saw the roses and burst into tears.
"See if I do that again!" He laid the flowers, beer and wine on the counter. "Okay— I still want that kiss."
He got that, and a head buried in his shoulder. The tears stopped after a moment, but not before wetting his shirt.
"Whatever it is, it's not going to ruin our night. Let's hear it, deal with it, and get it out of the way."
"It's that stupid Jenny Cartwright."
"I've taken her phone messages. She's your new client, right?"
"Was. She told me she needed a personal trainer who can run with her."
Tim twisted the cap off a Carlsberg Elefant, took a pull and handed it to Marilee.
"Insensitive bitch. Goddamit, you can wheel faster than she can run!"
"That's what I told her, then she started some bullshit about having to make eye contact and not wanting to look down on her trainer—
down on,
for Christ's sake!— while running, and I told her to stick it where she couldn't see it from any angle."
Tim sputtered and laughed through his second pull at the beer.
"You said that? I'd say you gave better than you got."
"Maybe so." Marilee gave him the first smile he'd seen that evening, followed by her own laugh. "But I'd rather not have had the set up line."
"Granted. And now let's address that fine dinner you're making, and I'll open this wine for the table. Not that we can't have a Carlsberg or two while we're waiting."
"We'll get sloshed."
Tim nodded.
A dinner to be savored. They ate slowly, with appreciation of the food and the cabernet. Tim told her about the resurrection of the Dennison case and his new Danish colleagues—his introduction to Carlsberg Elefant at the Buena Vista with Chris Juul, and his impressions of the marathon running Bente Flindt. Marilee took it in and got caught up in his narrative.
"I'd like to meet them," she said.
"I was thinking of asking them to dinner. Maybe on a day I can knock off early and cook."
"Oh?—this not up to continental standards?"
"Better," he said, looking into eyes that were mischievous and no longer teary.
After dinner Tim stacked the dishes while Marilee took over the bedroom and its bath. She clearly needed to be held and cuddled, possibly made love to. He'd give her enough time to catheterize and void herself, then set the mood and attire for however she wanted to present herself. He looked out the kitchen window to their walnut trees, the moon up and silvering leaves that had been springtime green two hours ago. He imaged Marilee's hair splayed out on the floral pattern of their summer linen.
He walked the hallway toward the bedroom, grudging the necessary detour to his office. He turned on the computer, and while it booted up he called Conerly's home and again got kicked over to voicemail. This time Tim stated who he was and asked Conerly to call him at his office number in the morning hours.
Then a quick check of incoming email. First up was the latest fusillade from the Death Penalty Advocacy Union. It was for Marilee, of course, a plea for her testimony during the penalty phase of her assailant's trial. This one referenced
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