judgment had failed him. But no knife appeared, no lead pipe fell from the shadows.
Lana drew down his zipper and, heedless of her dress, dropped to both knees before him in the grime. Overhead, the moon looked sickly, the color of whiskey.
Yet finally he knew that, for a while at least, he’d found a new home.
*
The afterglow faded, as always.
To his credit, it had taken longer than usual, four months of cohabitation in Lana’s apartment. Contact with the seductive unknown usually had that effect.
Lana had shared her most intimate secrets a couple of days after that first night. Stunningly unexpected though they’d been, they hadn’t been enough to send him packing. He was, by then, head over heels in … fascination, he supposed. This was too different to turn away from just yet, without exploration.
Scratch the surface of the mundane, and the underground of counterculture was revealed, rich and teeming. This was the landscape Gary had sought to travel, making up for the stultified upbringing of his first twenty-one years.
Scratch the underground and peel it back, and there was the land where Lana dwelled.
But the afterglow fades. He had bitten, he had swallowed. Best to move on before the emotional hooks barbed him any deeper. April had brought the warmth and renewal of spring after a winter of oddities. Now came the famous final scene, lovers at bittersweet poles, opposites that once attracted and now repelled. Gary had played it out any number of times. Never pleasant, just inevitable.
“How can you do this to me now ?” Lana wailed. “My operation’s just a week away!” Her eyes were dazed and wide, glassy with psychosexual trauma. Tears were abundant.
In the center of the living room, Gary held her tightly. That desperate agony of final contact. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You knew what I was like before…”
Lana, snuffling and huge-eyed: “I … I just wish I could have children with you, that might make all the difference in the world … wouldn’t it?”
He bit his lip, hating it when she talked this way, blind to her limitations. It wasn’t healthy.
“Don’t live in a fantasy world, Lana,” he said gently. “Climb out, please .”
He crushed his eyes shut a moment, and when he reopened, Lana seized him by the shoulders, a peculiar fire seeming to ignite within her. One last, savage kiss, and when she tore away it was not without disdain.
“Then go.” Her voice had grown uncharacteristically husky.
Gary retrieved his two bags; a tendency to travel light. What is love? Two souls and one flesh. There was no worse pain than the rending of one back into two.
Out the door, then into a musty corridor whose air always seemed yellow. It led him to the elevator, an ancient suicidal machine, a wrought-iron cage that clanked and shuddered down a gloomy open shaft. A rehearsal for death, condemnation, descent.
The gunshot seized him head to toe.
Hand shaking, Gary levered the elevator to a grinding halt and reversed directions. Dust sifted from the cage’s upper frame. He knew what he would find back upstairs. It had been no ruse, no shot fired into a pillow to plead for attention.
Strange. Mode of suicide was traditionally a great divider between the sexes. Severe bodily damage — gunshot, car crash, and the like — was usually the province of men. Women tended to opt for neater methods — pills, carbon monoxide, or at least precisely opened veins in the bathtub.
Gary was too shocked to weep just yet. He stood in the doorway, one pale-knuckled hand clenched on the knob. This was the most masculine thing Lana had ever done.
The tableau before him was grisly, fodder for scandal and legend had it occurred in a small town. Here, though, few would care at all; back page news at best. The only sensibilities that would get a tweak were those of the police.
Lana lay half-sprawled onto the sofa, legs askew at odd angles. One small breast bared. Smoking gun in hand, its barrel
Lana drew down his zipper and, heedless of her dress, dropped to both knees before him in the grime. Overhead, the moon looked sickly, the color of whiskey.
Yet finally he knew that, for a while at least, he’d found a new home.
*
The afterglow faded, as always.
To his credit, it had taken longer than usual, four months of cohabitation in Lana’s apartment. Contact with the seductive unknown usually had that effect.
Lana had shared her most intimate secrets a couple of days after that first night. Stunningly unexpected though they’d been, they hadn’t been enough to send him packing. He was, by then, head over heels in … fascination, he supposed. This was too different to turn away from just yet, without exploration.
Scratch the surface of the mundane, and the underground of counterculture was revealed, rich and teeming. This was the landscape Gary had sought to travel, making up for the stultified upbringing of his first twenty-one years.
Scratch the underground and peel it back, and there was the land where Lana dwelled.
But the afterglow fades. He had bitten, he had swallowed. Best to move on before the emotional hooks barbed him any deeper. April had brought the warmth and renewal of spring after a winter of oddities. Now came the famous final scene, lovers at bittersweet poles, opposites that once attracted and now repelled. Gary had played it out any number of times. Never pleasant, just inevitable.
“How can you do this to me now ?” Lana wailed. “My operation’s just a week away!” Her eyes were dazed and wide, glassy with psychosexual trauma. Tears were abundant.
In the center of the living room, Gary held her tightly. That desperate agony of final contact. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You knew what I was like before…”
Lana, snuffling and huge-eyed: “I … I just wish I could have children with you, that might make all the difference in the world … wouldn’t it?”
He bit his lip, hating it when she talked this way, blind to her limitations. It wasn’t healthy.
“Don’t live in a fantasy world, Lana,” he said gently. “Climb out, please .”
He crushed his eyes shut a moment, and when he reopened, Lana seized him by the shoulders, a peculiar fire seeming to ignite within her. One last, savage kiss, and when she tore away it was not without disdain.
“Then go.” Her voice had grown uncharacteristically husky.
Gary retrieved his two bags; a tendency to travel light. What is love? Two souls and one flesh. There was no worse pain than the rending of one back into two.
Out the door, then into a musty corridor whose air always seemed yellow. It led him to the elevator, an ancient suicidal machine, a wrought-iron cage that clanked and shuddered down a gloomy open shaft. A rehearsal for death, condemnation, descent.
The gunshot seized him head to toe.
Hand shaking, Gary levered the elevator to a grinding halt and reversed directions. Dust sifted from the cage’s upper frame. He knew what he would find back upstairs. It had been no ruse, no shot fired into a pillow to plead for attention.
Strange. Mode of suicide was traditionally a great divider between the sexes. Severe bodily damage — gunshot, car crash, and the like — was usually the province of men. Women tended to opt for neater methods — pills, carbon monoxide, or at least precisely opened veins in the bathtub.
Gary was too shocked to weep just yet. He stood in the doorway, one pale-knuckled hand clenched on the knob. This was the most masculine thing Lana had ever done.
The tableau before him was grisly, fodder for scandal and legend had it occurred in a small town. Here, though, few would care at all; back page news at best. The only sensibilities that would get a tweak were those of the police.
Lana lay half-sprawled onto the sofa, legs askew at odd angles. One small breast bared. Smoking gun in hand, its barrel
Similar Books
