A Place Where Nothing Ever Happens: Short Story by Claude Lalumiere Page A

female private eye, while so many men were away fighting. She told Kyle how she always emailed everything she wrote to her brother Jordan, who never let her give up on her writing. She made some money placing a few articles in magazines, in journals, and on websites, but it wasn’t enough. She still hadn’t sold any of her screenplays. She’d taken this job to help pay the rent until her career picked up. Plus, it was too easy to spend her whole life in front of the computer writing. She liked interacting with people every day. Faced with Lauren’s determination and ideas, Kyle felt increasingly inadequate.
    Eventually Lauren rescued the moment and said, “Hey, they’re showing the first cut of
The Big Sleep
at the rep on Wednesday. The one that was never released at the time. Wanna go? I love Bacall so much. And this is one of my favourite movies. I’ve seen it, like, twenty times or something. But I’ve never seen this version.” She explained that studio executives had been unhappy with the first version of the film. It had sat unreleased for a year, until new footage was shot to emphasize the Bogart/Bacall chemistry, but, according to what she’d read, at the expense of the plot.
    â€œSo?” Lauren asked.
    Kyle realized that he still hadn’t answered. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d love to go.” Lauren’s almost-orange eyes lit up, and Kyle felt his insides melt into hot marshmallow goo.
    It was that Wednesday at 6:30 p.m., while Kyle was shaving, that the phone rang. There was a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that it was Lauren calling. Cancelling.
    He picked up the phone, half his face covered with shaving cream and, miraculously, not a cut on him yet. Trying not to sound dejected, he said, “Hello?”
    â€œHi, son,” answered the impossible voice. “I know this must come as a shock, but I need to talk to you.”
    Kyle’s mind raced through a whole spectrum of emotions and reactions. There was a long silence. Tentatively, the voice on the phone said, “Kyle?”
    And then Kyle simply got furious, mad as all hell. “You sick asshole! I don’t who the fuck you are, but if you ever try this stunt again, I’ll find you and wring your putrid neck.” Kyle slammed the phone down.
    Why the hell would someone call him impersonating his dead dad? How twisted was that?
    Then his rage turned into tears, and the doorbell rang. He stomped to the door.
    He opened the door to his apartment, an angry scowl on his face, tears still wet around his eyes, globs of shaving cream dripping from his cheeks onto his naked chest, onto his black cotton pants, onto the floor. “What do you want!”
    And there stood Lauren, holding out a bouquet of flowers for him.
    And she was gorgeous. Just gorgeous. She was wearing a blue jean jacket over a one-piece pastel-coloured flowery dress that stopped mid-thigh. A simple black hoop hung on her left ankle, and her toenails — peeking out of her sandals — were painted a dark orange. The dress was low-cut, revealing the curve of her breasts, and Kyle had a vision of his face pressed close to them. He breathed deeply and imagined savouring their aroma. No makeup to mar her delicate lips, bright eyes, and freckled cheeks. Her neck-length strawberry-blond hair tucked behind her right ear with a purple and orange flower, which emphasized her entrancing eyes.
    The next thing Kyle knew, he was sitting on the couch. He felt something wet sliming on his chest, and he realized that most of the shaving cream had slid off his face. His deep embarrassment and conviction that he’d forever screwed up his chances to ever, ever hook up with Lauren prevented him from appreciating the touch of Lauren’s hands, which were gently cupping his left hand.
    Before either of them had time to say anything, the phone rang again. When, after a few rings, Kyle didn’t move, Lauren let