CHAPTER TWELVE
Marie was trying to work in Joe’s home office; her gaze was riveted on the computer screen as she read a few lines from her literary effort. (Literary spasm?)
“Rachmaninoff’s Misery,” she read aloud. “Ahhh...no.” She backspaced and tried again. “Rachmaninoff’s Tears. A literary novel by Marie G. Hhermann.
“Chapter One. Kirsten sensed the coming spring, sensed it as an alcoholic sensed the nearness of fine wine. Too long she had been a virtual prisoner in her apartment, with only the company of her flat-mate, Jeff, to beat back the boredom of the long winter days. She had known Jeff exactly four months and twenty days, and thought him splendid in all ways, save for his manner of speaking without thinking. And, of course, the way he sprayed saliva when he spoke. Oh my God. That is terrible.”
She backspaced; tried again. “And thought him splendid in all ways, save for his manner of speaking without thinking. But he was young. Time would teach him restraint. And speaking of restraint, she wished he would exercise a little less of it. Rather than remaining aloof as a well-fed cat, she wished he would notice her. She yearned for his touch on her face, her shoulders, her creamy, upthrust breasts. She wanted him to take her, to know her, as a man knows a woman, intimately, deeply...repeatedly. She...oh you numbskull, this isn’t working! Why is there even a man in this? And in the first paragraph, no less?”
She brought her fists down on the keyboard, instantly typing gibberish. More gibberish, anyway. Then she took a deep breath, deleted the chunk, and started again. “Rachmaninoff’s Tears. A literary novel by Marie G. Hhermannn. Chapter One. Kirsten sensed the—”
She cut herself off as the front door slammed, and cocked her head, listening. She could hear someone stomping around in the living room, the rattle of keys, a grocery bag being slammed onto a table. Then the beep-boop-boop-beep-boop-boop-boop of someone dialing a touch-tone phone. Joe still had a land line, which was just terribly quaint.
A long pause, as if someone was listening to a voicemail greeting, and then...
“You jerk,” Joe spat in a low voice that carried perfectly. “I thought you cared about me. Don’t ever call me again.”
She breathed out, her heart contracting a little in empathy. Oh boy.
She heard Joe slam the phone into its cradle. After a long moment, she got up and headed for the living room.
Once there, she saw him pouring himself a drink. Pure whiskey, straight into a gigantic water glass. This was usually for show—Joe liked to walk around with a glass full of hard liquor, but gagged after the second swallow and ended up pouring the rest of the booze down the sink. (She adored him, but he was terribly wasteful.) But tonight he had the look of a man who was planning to drink until he puked, gagging or no gagging.
“Don’t do it, hon,” she said, making a deliberate effort to keep sympathy out of her tone. Joe, she knew from long experience, would not appreciate it. At all. “You’ll be going to the bathroom all night. You know that stuff’s a diuretic.”
He didn’t answer, just took a defiant gulp, then coughed explosively. She cleared her throat. “So...ah...Curtis decided to go back to the ex-girlfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend. The one before Sara. Andy somebody.”
“A flexible young man, Curtis.”
He flinched and she was sorry to see it; she hadn’t meant to add to his pain. “But him being a cheesy slut doesn’t mean you’re a bad person,” she continued. “In fact, his decision probably doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Next you’re going to tell me it’s not me, it’s him.”
“Well, it’s not you. You’re wonderful. He’s a hound.”
“Basically, I wasn’t enough for him. But that doesn’t have anything to do with me. I mustn’t blame myself.”
“He was a bimbo! You’re smarter than him and better looking, I might add. And you look better in suits. Frankly, there was nothing for him to bring to the relationship.”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate this—actually, I don’t appreciate it.”
“You’d rather be here sulking by yourself?”
“To preserve our friendship, I won’t answer that. Listen, if I’m as great as you say...why can’t I find anyone?”
She rubbed her temple. Should have stayed in the office. Should have hidden until he passed out. Also: I am a terrible friend. “Oh, jeez. Why do you think that because you haven’t found anyone, it has to be a failing in you?”
“Because it is a failing in me.”
“By that logic,” she said reasonably, “then I deserve to be alone, too. Is that what you think?”
“Well. You’re a snob...and irritating, sometimes...and you get pissy when you don’t get your own way...and you take your good fortune for granted...and your closet is a disaster...”
She waved him along. “Yes, yes...”
“But no. I don’t think you deserve to be alone.”
She nodded, satisfied. (She’d let the closet remark go unchallenged for now.) “There you go. I don’t think you deserve to be alone. See? We agree.” She waited expectantly, but Joe didn’t get it.
“Why are you still here?” he asked.
“Hey, you didn’t let me wallow in self-pity when I was Jessica LeFahrvegnugen. Now it’s your turn to be cheered up against your will. To start...” She tried to take his whiskey glass away; Joe held on; they struggled. Then he spitefully let go and she found herself drenched with Canadian Club.
“Nice try, but that didn’t cheer me up.”
“You bastard! I’m–God, this stuff stinks. I feel like I should be lying in a gutter. Argh!” She blinked booze out of her eyes. “And it stings like crazy, Jesus.”
She smacked him on the arm; he smacked her back. They glared at each other, then attacked like crazed alley cats, kicking, scratching, growling. They ended up on the floor, Marie on top; she grabbed his shoulders and jerked him to her until they were nose to nose.
“Repeat after me. The bimbo. Wasn’t. Good. Enough. For me.”
“I smell booze,” he said sternly. “Have you been drinking?”
She clutched her head. “Aarrggh! You are impossible!”
“The worst part is, that’s the last drop of liquor in the place. And I’m not nearly drunk enough to quit.” He managed to flip her off him and then pounced, grabbing her shirt collar and then sucking on the cloth. “Stop!” she shrieked. “That tickles! And it’s really, really weird!”
“Now if you kept cocktail onions in your hair, you’d be the perfect woman.”
She tried to slap him away, but she was laughing too hard. And when his lips moved to her neck she stopped laughing. Practically stopped breathing.
Joe pulled back and looked down at her. “You’re the greatest.”
“Yes. FYI, if you don’t kiss me, I’m never speaking to you again.”
He bit his lower lip. “Marie...”
“Shut up.” She grabbed him and pulled him toward her for a long one. He half-heartedly resisted for a moment, then gave up the pretense and began—oh, thank God—kissing her back in earnest.
“Do not stop to wring my shirt out over a glass,” she muttered.
“Later,” he growled back.