throat. It was the last door on the right, at the very end of the hallway. She had no weapon, but she had been lucky. She hadn’t been seen. Taking several steps toward the closed door, she paused and held her breath. Now, faintly, she could hear a television. He probably had told whoever was in there to stay until he was finished with his meeting. Which made his apparent interest in a sexual encounter right there in the living room a surprising bit of audacity. That is, if there really was someone in there. Perhaps there wasn’t. He might have been watching the television by himself.
She backed away from the door, turned sideways, and went back down the hallway. After stepping into the kitchen to get her purse, she headed to the living room to make sure he was dead.
She couldn’t see him in the dimly lighted room where the bank of high-tech sound equipment iridesced in silence, its beady coruscation throwing nervous reflections against the darkness. When she got to him, he had coiled into a fetal ball, leaving life much as he had entered it. The room was heavy with the reek of vomit and feces. He was dead. She looked out the windows again, admiring London, and then she turned and walked out of the apartment, making sure the door was locked behind her.
C ATE LAY AWAKE IN BED, HER MIND DARTING BACK AND FORTH between the two new events, one a great weight that angered and grieved her as only betrayal can, the other an enticing question mark that she realized was as attractive to her as a means of escape, a counterbalance to the other weight, as it was a unique opportunity. All of it together put her in a state of heightened emotion that was not easily defined. There was a haunting giddiness about her situation, a feeling of unreality she could not bring under control.
But it was Tavio’s infidelities that dominated the night, penetrating her sleep with unbidden images of his trysts with other women, women whose faces she could never see but whose naked bodies were all too clearly visible in her mind’s eye, olive-skinned women whose limbs and loins were dusky rather than pale like hers, whose breasts were lusty shades of cinnamon and almond rather than the dusty rose of her own. She dreamed of his familiar tenderness and how he used those same ways of touching to undress the dark women of her imagination. She woke crying, drifted back into exhaustion only to awake again, her eyes matted with tears.
When the alarm woke her in the morning, she found herself lying crosswise at the foot of her bed, her spine resting against a pillow that probably had kept her from actuallyrolling off. For a moment she was completely disoriented, the window across the room unrecognizable and even ominous in its lack of association.
With her heart pounding, she wrenched herself off the sheets and stood, unsteady, her wiry hair disheveled, and tried to clear her head and put herself into a familiar context. Finally she fixed her eyes on her overturned shoes at the foot of the bed, and after a moment everything shifted slightly and fell into place. The same old place.
She showered and brushed her teeth standing naked in front of the mirror, left hand on her hip, studying her turbaned reflection. She looked like hell. She rinsed out her mouth and put away the toothbrush. Turning from the sink, she bent over, unwrapped the towel, and began drying her hair, her head down, staring at her own naked thighs … her own naked thighs. Suddenly she sobbed unexpectedly, once, then twice. She held her breath and closed her eyes, the third sob lodged deep in her throat, waiting there for her to make up her mind.
She straightened up quickly, slinging her wet hair back with a fierce snap of her head, and turned back to the sink, putting the towel aside on a stand. She opened the door of the medicine cabinet and took out Tavio’s razor, which she kept on the glass shelf beside his last bottle of cologne. Without thinking, she suddenly began banging it
She backed away from the door, turned sideways, and went back down the hallway. After stepping into the kitchen to get her purse, she headed to the living room to make sure he was dead.
She couldn’t see him in the dimly lighted room where the bank of high-tech sound equipment iridesced in silence, its beady coruscation throwing nervous reflections against the darkness. When she got to him, he had coiled into a fetal ball, leaving life much as he had entered it. The room was heavy with the reek of vomit and feces. He was dead. She looked out the windows again, admiring London, and then she turned and walked out of the apartment, making sure the door was locked behind her.
C ATE LAY AWAKE IN BED, HER MIND DARTING BACK AND FORTH between the two new events, one a great weight that angered and grieved her as only betrayal can, the other an enticing question mark that she realized was as attractive to her as a means of escape, a counterbalance to the other weight, as it was a unique opportunity. All of it together put her in a state of heightened emotion that was not easily defined. There was a haunting giddiness about her situation, a feeling of unreality she could not bring under control.
But it was Tavio’s infidelities that dominated the night, penetrating her sleep with unbidden images of his trysts with other women, women whose faces she could never see but whose naked bodies were all too clearly visible in her mind’s eye, olive-skinned women whose limbs and loins were dusky rather than pale like hers, whose breasts were lusty shades of cinnamon and almond rather than the dusty rose of her own. She dreamed of his familiar tenderness and how he used those same ways of touching to undress the dark women of her imagination. She woke crying, drifted back into exhaustion only to awake again, her eyes matted with tears.
When the alarm woke her in the morning, she found herself lying crosswise at the foot of her bed, her spine resting against a pillow that probably had kept her from actuallyrolling off. For a moment she was completely disoriented, the window across the room unrecognizable and even ominous in its lack of association.
With her heart pounding, she wrenched herself off the sheets and stood, unsteady, her wiry hair disheveled, and tried to clear her head and put herself into a familiar context. Finally she fixed her eyes on her overturned shoes at the foot of the bed, and after a moment everything shifted slightly and fell into place. The same old place.
She showered and brushed her teeth standing naked in front of the mirror, left hand on her hip, studying her turbaned reflection. She looked like hell. She rinsed out her mouth and put away the toothbrush. Turning from the sink, she bent over, unwrapped the towel, and began drying her hair, her head down, staring at her own naked thighs … her own naked thighs. Suddenly she sobbed unexpectedly, once, then twice. She held her breath and closed her eyes, the third sob lodged deep in her throat, waiting there for her to make up her mind.
She straightened up quickly, slinging her wet hair back with a fierce snap of her head, and turned back to the sink, putting the towel aside on a stand. She opened the door of the medicine cabinet and took out Tavio’s razor, which she kept on the glass shelf beside his last bottle of cologne. Without thinking, she suddenly began banging it
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