reached the subdivision that contained the address that Elmo had given him the night before, he seriously thought about turning back. The thunderous roar of his Harley physically violated the empty, silent streets where the only visible modes of transportation were bicycles and hybrids. It was yuppie hell, and he was riding into the middle of it. It didn’t fit with the impression of Elmo he’d formed so far.
He knew which house was Elmo’s, without checking the numbers, because of the car outside. He’d never seen her ride, but the blood-red Miata that flashed in the beam of his headlights was a statement in the sea of corporately bland individuality. He parked his bike behind Elmo’s car, and for the first time felt confident that perhaps he wouldn’t come out to find it covered in Greenpeace or Save the Whales stickers.
She answered his knock wearing a fluffy terrycloth robe that covered her from her shoulders to the ankles of her bare feet. Not an outfit he’d been expecting.
Chiz handed Elmo the bottle of Jameson he’d brought with a skeptically raised eyebrow. “Here’s to a quiet night in, doll.”
She opened the door wider and waved him in with the bottle. “Whether or not we’re quiet remains to be seen, baby.”
He followed her through the shoebox of a house. He was fairly certain that his room at the clubhouse was bigger than her living room. He’d never been claustrophobic before, but his chest felt a little tight, and he was beginning to miss his motel room. That, at least, was cozy. This was stark and unforgiving, all wooden floors and white paint, with a few colored cushions thrown around as if color was an afterthought. It looked to be straight out of a catalogue. It was devoid of individuality, and told him nothing about her personal taste. Her personality had been hidden under a coat of gloss paint. The whole thing, the fastidiously neat area, the tiny house and equally small car, the do-it-by-numbers decorating, was aggressively single.
Between the funhouse feel of the location and the dowdy gown that Elmo was wearing, all so opposite from the daring, unrestrained woman he’d come to know, Chiz felt uncomfortable and twitchy. Only the car, vibrant and built for speed, seemed to fit with the Elmo he knew.
It took about twenty steps to get from the front door to the kitchen. Chiz looked around, noting the complete absence of photographs or anything that hinted at the sort of life that Elmo led, or any family she might have. Chiz was a neat freak, but Elmo took it to a whole other level. There was no clutter anywhere, not even a crumb on the breadboard. Chiz wondered if she ever actually ate food in the room. She set the bottle down on the counter, so that she could pull two glasses from a matte grey wall cupboard, and poured them both a generous amount of golden liquid. Even the whiskey seemed out of place.
When she handed him his glass, he took a long swallow. He craved the familiar warmth of the alcohol in his gut in counterpoint to the unfamiliar surroundings.
Elmo took an equally large drink and returned her glass to the counter. “I’ll be back in a moment. I just need to finish up getting ready.”
God, he hoped the rest of her preparations didn’t involve bed socks and a hot-water bottle.
“Take your time, doll.”
Elmo left the room, headed into the rest of the house, and what Chiz supposed must have been her bedroom. He finished the whiskey in his glass and, not hearing any sounds of Elmo’s return, poured himself some more.
He was peering out through the night-darkened glass of the window, trying to make out if Elmo had a yard, when he heard her re-enter the room. It was the tap of shoes on the hard floor that had alerted him to her return. That was promising. He turned, and almost choked on the mouthful of whiskey he’d been about to
He knew which house was Elmo’s, without checking the numbers, because of the car outside. He’d never seen her ride, but the blood-red Miata that flashed in the beam of his headlights was a statement in the sea of corporately bland individuality. He parked his bike behind Elmo’s car, and for the first time felt confident that perhaps he wouldn’t come out to find it covered in Greenpeace or Save the Whales stickers.
She answered his knock wearing a fluffy terrycloth robe that covered her from her shoulders to the ankles of her bare feet. Not an outfit he’d been expecting.
Chiz handed Elmo the bottle of Jameson he’d brought with a skeptically raised eyebrow. “Here’s to a quiet night in, doll.”
She opened the door wider and waved him in with the bottle. “Whether or not we’re quiet remains to be seen, baby.”
He followed her through the shoebox of a house. He was fairly certain that his room at the clubhouse was bigger than her living room. He’d never been claustrophobic before, but his chest felt a little tight, and he was beginning to miss his motel room. That, at least, was cozy. This was stark and unforgiving, all wooden floors and white paint, with a few colored cushions thrown around as if color was an afterthought. It looked to be straight out of a catalogue. It was devoid of individuality, and told him nothing about her personal taste. Her personality had been hidden under a coat of gloss paint. The whole thing, the fastidiously neat area, the tiny house and equally small car, the do-it-by-numbers decorating, was aggressively single.
Between the funhouse feel of the location and the dowdy gown that Elmo was wearing, all so opposite from the daring, unrestrained woman he’d come to know, Chiz felt uncomfortable and twitchy. Only the car, vibrant and built for speed, seemed to fit with the Elmo he knew.
It took about twenty steps to get from the front door to the kitchen. Chiz looked around, noting the complete absence of photographs or anything that hinted at the sort of life that Elmo led, or any family she might have. Chiz was a neat freak, but Elmo took it to a whole other level. There was no clutter anywhere, not even a crumb on the breadboard. Chiz wondered if she ever actually ate food in the room. She set the bottle down on the counter, so that she could pull two glasses from a matte grey wall cupboard, and poured them both a generous amount of golden liquid. Even the whiskey seemed out of place.
When she handed him his glass, he took a long swallow. He craved the familiar warmth of the alcohol in his gut in counterpoint to the unfamiliar surroundings.
Elmo took an equally large drink and returned her glass to the counter. “I’ll be back in a moment. I just need to finish up getting ready.”
God, he hoped the rest of her preparations didn’t involve bed socks and a hot-water bottle.
“Take your time, doll.”
Elmo left the room, headed into the rest of the house, and what Chiz supposed must have been her bedroom. He finished the whiskey in his glass and, not hearing any sounds of Elmo’s return, poured himself some more.
He was peering out through the night-darkened glass of the window, trying to make out if Elmo had a yard, when he heard her re-enter the room. It was the tap of shoes on the hard floor that had alerted him to her return. That was promising. He turned, and almost choked on the mouthful of whiskey he’d been about to
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