she said. “He’s working late,” and I thought, My good luck!
Lola said she had a key hidden under a mat at the back door and I followed her. The whole time she was waving a hand in front of her nose, “Oh, that Hoboken smell, it’s always bad when it’s going to rain,” and said she’d better get an umbrella and unlocked the back door, and I said I’d wait but she insisted I come in.
When she flipped on the lights we were standing in her kitchen, which looked right out of a magazine with Mexican tiles on the floor and fancy appliances and pots and pans hanging over a huge island in the middle of the room, and when I said it was really nice she said she never cooked so it was a waste, then said there were lots of umbrellas in the front hall closet so I followed her, careful not to touch anything, past a dining room with a long table and stiff-backed upholstered chairs and the living room with that abstract painting I could just make out in the dark, and when we got to the front hallway she stopped, and turned, and kissed me, her tongue in my mouth, and I couldn’t breathe I was so excited, but then she pulled away.
“Oh God,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I told her it was okay, but she started crying and said she was a terrible person, that she was unhappy and didn’t love her husband but couldn’t leave him because he was rich and how was she going to make it on her own, and leaned against me sobbing, and I patted her hair and tried to breathe normally, thinking I couldn’t do it here , not in her house, and then she pulled away again and said she was sorry but I had to excuse her, that she couldn’t possibly come to my studio, not now, and I stood there a minute thinking how it had all been ruined, but then she kissed me again, and we stumbled into the living room, our mouths glued together, and she hiked her skirt up and practically ripped her panties off and tossed them across the room and tugged my jeans down and we sort of fell onto the floor, and when we were doing it she said, “Put your hands around my neck,” and I did, and she tossed her head back and forth and I asked, “Am I hurting you?” and she said, “No, I like it,” so I squeezed a little harder and felt her nails dig into my back and couldn’t hold on much longer and told her, and she said, “It’s okay, I’m on the pill,” and when it was over she said, “You’d better go, my husband might come home,” and led me through the kitchen and helped me on with my jacket and hugged me really tight like her life depended on it, which was kind of ironic I thought, and kissed me really hard again, and when I got outside I felt confused and it took a minute to gather my wits—my head was spinning—and I hadn’t gone a block when a police car screeched to a halt and two cops got out and one slammed me against the cruiser and twisted my arm behind my back, while the other one fumbled my wallet out of my jeans. “What’s going on?” I asked, but they didn’t answer, just clamped handcuffs on my wrists, then one of the cops kneed me in the balls and I doubled over, and the other cop said, “Shut the fuck up,” and the first one said, “See if the knife’s on him,” and I said, “ Knife? ” as the cop slipped on a rubber glove and brought a small kitchen paring knife out of my pocket, covered in blood, and there was more blood dripping down the side of my jacket onto my jeans, and I heard the other cop on his radio say, “We’ve got him, weapon still on him too, a real bozo. The husband’s dead in the upstairs bedroom, multiple stab wounds. Wife’s okay, but someone from the rape squad should meet us at the OR,” and I said, “No, no, it wasn’t like that—” and the cop elbowed me in the gut.
Then an ambulance pulled up and I saw her, Lola, being led out of her brownstone, leaning on an EMT guy like she could hardly walk, and sobbing, her hair a mess, lipstick smeared
Lola said she had a key hidden under a mat at the back door and I followed her. The whole time she was waving a hand in front of her nose, “Oh, that Hoboken smell, it’s always bad when it’s going to rain,” and said she’d better get an umbrella and unlocked the back door, and I said I’d wait but she insisted I come in.
When she flipped on the lights we were standing in her kitchen, which looked right out of a magazine with Mexican tiles on the floor and fancy appliances and pots and pans hanging over a huge island in the middle of the room, and when I said it was really nice she said she never cooked so it was a waste, then said there were lots of umbrellas in the front hall closet so I followed her, careful not to touch anything, past a dining room with a long table and stiff-backed upholstered chairs and the living room with that abstract painting I could just make out in the dark, and when we got to the front hallway she stopped, and turned, and kissed me, her tongue in my mouth, and I couldn’t breathe I was so excited, but then she pulled away.
“Oh God,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I told her it was okay, but she started crying and said she was a terrible person, that she was unhappy and didn’t love her husband but couldn’t leave him because he was rich and how was she going to make it on her own, and leaned against me sobbing, and I patted her hair and tried to breathe normally, thinking I couldn’t do it here , not in her house, and then she pulled away again and said she was sorry but I had to excuse her, that she couldn’t possibly come to my studio, not now, and I stood there a minute thinking how it had all been ruined, but then she kissed me again, and we stumbled into the living room, our mouths glued together, and she hiked her skirt up and practically ripped her panties off and tossed them across the room and tugged my jeans down and we sort of fell onto the floor, and when we were doing it she said, “Put your hands around my neck,” and I did, and she tossed her head back and forth and I asked, “Am I hurting you?” and she said, “No, I like it,” so I squeezed a little harder and felt her nails dig into my back and couldn’t hold on much longer and told her, and she said, “It’s okay, I’m on the pill,” and when it was over she said, “You’d better go, my husband might come home,” and led me through the kitchen and helped me on with my jacket and hugged me really tight like her life depended on it, which was kind of ironic I thought, and kissed me really hard again, and when I got outside I felt confused and it took a minute to gather my wits—my head was spinning—and I hadn’t gone a block when a police car screeched to a halt and two cops got out and one slammed me against the cruiser and twisted my arm behind my back, while the other one fumbled my wallet out of my jeans. “What’s going on?” I asked, but they didn’t answer, just clamped handcuffs on my wrists, then one of the cops kneed me in the balls and I doubled over, and the other cop said, “Shut the fuck up,” and the first one said, “See if the knife’s on him,” and I said, “ Knife? ” as the cop slipped on a rubber glove and brought a small kitchen paring knife out of my pocket, covered in blood, and there was more blood dripping down the side of my jacket onto my jeans, and I heard the other cop on his radio say, “We’ve got him, weapon still on him too, a real bozo. The husband’s dead in the upstairs bedroom, multiple stab wounds. Wife’s okay, but someone from the rape squad should meet us at the OR,” and I said, “No, no, it wasn’t like that—” and the cop elbowed me in the gut.
Then an ambulance pulled up and I saw her, Lola, being led out of her brownstone, leaning on an EMT guy like she could hardly walk, and sobbing, her hair a mess, lipstick smeared
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