tipped-over bag Mike has left for the laundry, an effluvium of white sheets with a long, hot streak of fuchsia lipstick. I can picture a swirl of candy-colored hair pushed face-first into the bed linen. My stomach turns.
Mike is fast behind me, scooping up the sheets and shoving them into the bag and yanking it closed with one swift gesture. Like a magician.
I had been about to light a cigarette, even though I don't really smoke. He had already pulled his lighter out of his pocket. And there it is, or was.
I feel something slip inside me, fast and hard, and then suddenly regain its footing before hitting bottom. The shaking hand, cigarette loose between fingers, that had seemed about to move to my face returns instead to my side. Then, a second later, am I really leaning casually against the wall, managing even to finish lighting the cigarette, lifting my head to the still outstretched lighter?
He snaps the lighter shut, looking down at me with watchful eyes.
Then, he slides the lighter into his pocket and leans against the wall too.
"Lora King, you continue to surprise me. You really do." I look up at him, blowing smoke from behind my lower lip.
He turns his head, appraising.
"I really had you pegged for one of those who would be wrecked." I let the smoke fill my lungs, giving shape and texture and spine to the moment. My jaw sets itself, and the warm flush I'd first felt around my eyes, tears waiting to happen, vanishes. I am sucked dry in a heartbeat and feel funny, like I am on strings.
"I thought you'd be a finger pointer, or an hysteric, at least a crier," he says, not smugly but thoughtfully, like he has just read something unanticipated in the morning paper, something that happened between sundown and sunup.
"Is that the usual routine?" I say, walking toward the center of the room, then turning and facing him again.
"Not always, but with you ..." He smiles suddenly and, head still tilted against the wall, he twists around to catch my gaze. "Aren't I a bastard? Or maybe I'm a powder puff. You see, Lora King, turns out I'm surprising myself this time. Turns out I'm disappointed how little you care."
I find myself offering a sharp giggle of shock.
"Hard-boiled." He winces.
Covering my mouth, I concede, "You're rotten," before letting the smile spread, blowing smoke. I run the tip of my thumb along my lower lip, brushing away a stray wisp of tobacco.
Die a Little -- 70 --
"Well, then." He folds his arms and matches my stare, grinning like a snake. "Put out that cigarette, beautiful, and take off the fucking dress."
Die a Little -- 71 --
[?]*[?]
It is the middle of August when it happens, when I can't ignore it any longer. It is a postcard of the famous pier, a shadowy couple on the edge, waving in the moonlight. It is lying on the floor of my vestibule.
The words "Welcome to Santa Monica Pier" are punches of light in the sky. The handwriting awkward, as though written from a strange angle or position, or maybe while riding in a car, fast.
Your brothers wife is a tramp, she's no good and she'll rune him. If you dont beleve me, ask at the Red room lounge in Holywd.
I read it over three or four times, squinting at the scratches.
There is no postmark. Somebody has just slid it under the door.
I sit down and read it one more time.
I turn it over, look at the picture again, and then read it even more slowly, studying the address, the turned corner.
What could it possibly ...
I take a long pause, then pick up the phone. Then put the phone down. Then grab the phone book for Hollywood. Dragging my finger up the page.
Redux Stereophonies
Red Tag Appliances
Red Sam's Pawn
Red Rooster Coffee Shop
Red Room Lounge
Red Room Lounge. 12614 Hollywood Boulevard.
"Hello. I'm trying to find someone. I think she may be a customer."
"Honey, we're a bar and grill, not an information service."
"You just might know her name."
"I don't know names. I don't know nothing. You want a drink, come on by."
My chest is
Mike is fast behind me, scooping up the sheets and shoving them into the bag and yanking it closed with one swift gesture. Like a magician.
I had been about to light a cigarette, even though I don't really smoke. He had already pulled his lighter out of his pocket. And there it is, or was.
I feel something slip inside me, fast and hard, and then suddenly regain its footing before hitting bottom. The shaking hand, cigarette loose between fingers, that had seemed about to move to my face returns instead to my side. Then, a second later, am I really leaning casually against the wall, managing even to finish lighting the cigarette, lifting my head to the still outstretched lighter?
He snaps the lighter shut, looking down at me with watchful eyes.
Then, he slides the lighter into his pocket and leans against the wall too.
"Lora King, you continue to surprise me. You really do." I look up at him, blowing smoke from behind my lower lip.
He turns his head, appraising.
"I really had you pegged for one of those who would be wrecked." I let the smoke fill my lungs, giving shape and texture and spine to the moment. My jaw sets itself, and the warm flush I'd first felt around my eyes, tears waiting to happen, vanishes. I am sucked dry in a heartbeat and feel funny, like I am on strings.
"I thought you'd be a finger pointer, or an hysteric, at least a crier," he says, not smugly but thoughtfully, like he has just read something unanticipated in the morning paper, something that happened between sundown and sunup.
"Is that the usual routine?" I say, walking toward the center of the room, then turning and facing him again.
"Not always, but with you ..." He smiles suddenly and, head still tilted against the wall, he twists around to catch my gaze. "Aren't I a bastard? Or maybe I'm a powder puff. You see, Lora King, turns out I'm surprising myself this time. Turns out I'm disappointed how little you care."
I find myself offering a sharp giggle of shock.
"Hard-boiled." He winces.
Covering my mouth, I concede, "You're rotten," before letting the smile spread, blowing smoke. I run the tip of my thumb along my lower lip, brushing away a stray wisp of tobacco.
Die a Little -- 70 --
"Well, then." He folds his arms and matches my stare, grinning like a snake. "Put out that cigarette, beautiful, and take off the fucking dress."
Die a Little -- 71 --
[?]*[?]
It is the middle of August when it happens, when I can't ignore it any longer. It is a postcard of the famous pier, a shadowy couple on the edge, waving in the moonlight. It is lying on the floor of my vestibule.
The words "Welcome to Santa Monica Pier" are punches of light in the sky. The handwriting awkward, as though written from a strange angle or position, or maybe while riding in a car, fast.
Your brothers wife is a tramp, she's no good and she'll rune him. If you dont beleve me, ask at the Red room lounge in Holywd.
I read it over three or four times, squinting at the scratches.
There is no postmark. Somebody has just slid it under the door.
I sit down and read it one more time.
I turn it over, look at the picture again, and then read it even more slowly, studying the address, the turned corner.
What could it possibly ...
I take a long pause, then pick up the phone. Then put the phone down. Then grab the phone book for Hollywood. Dragging my finger up the page.
Redux Stereophonies
Red Tag Appliances
Red Sam's Pawn
Red Rooster Coffee Shop
Red Room Lounge
Red Room Lounge. 12614 Hollywood Boulevard.
"Hello. I'm trying to find someone. I think she may be a customer."
"Honey, we're a bar and grill, not an information service."
"You just might know her name."
"I don't know names. I don't know nothing. You want a drink, come on by."
My chest is
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