The Fish Kisser by James Hawkins Page A

Love,” Roger had said the previous evening, “I’ll miss you, Trude.”
    Sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, sorting through computer discs, choosing those that might come in handy as he prepared for his Dutch trip, he repeated, tenderly, “I’ll miss you.”
    She didn’t reply.
    â€œI’m sorry … I know you hate being on your own but I don’t have any choice,” he continued, still shuffling discs. “The company says I have to go. I wish you could come with me though. Maybe next time, eh? When you’re feeling better.”
    She nodded slowly. Her sad young eyes pleading, “Take me … Don’t leave me here alone.” But she could not ask.
    â€œI’ll be back Friday,” he explained, as he packed selected discs into an old brown briefcase.
    She’d been alone before—most days—with Roger at work in the city. But this wasn’t just another day at the office; this would be three days and two nights—it would seem like a week, or a month.
    She projected a silent plea to the back of his head, but her thoughts failed to sink in, and he continued,“I’m getting the ferry to Holland tonight. That’ll get me there tomorrow morning about seven …” Pausing to examine the label on one of the discs his brow furrowed in concentration, then he blew down his nose. “Hum … What do you think, Trude?” he asked, showing her the disc. “Do you think I should take this?”
    She looked away, fraught with fear—every young partner’s fear: fear of abandonment, fear of someone else—someone prettier, sexier, more exciting, more willing, perhaps; fear he might never return.
    â€œDon’t go—please don’t go,” she willed inwardly, knowing she could not ask.
    â€œI’ll have plenty of time to drive to The Hague,” he continued, unaware of her desperation. “I don’t have to be there until eleven. My speech is at two. Then I’ll get the ship back tomorrow night and, bingo, I’ll be back before you’ve even missed me.”
    As if suddenly aware of Trudy’s needs, Roger paused in his task, brought his face close to hers and ran his fingers across her cheek. Perfect, he thought, absolutely perfect, as he sensed the softness of her fresh, young skin, then stroked her long dark hair and exposed a delicate ear. He loved her ears, adored them—could play with them for hours, gently stroking, teasing, and squeezing, as he controlled his computer with his other hand. But now, as he bent to kiss her ear, she twitched, like a horse bothered by a fly and lashed his face with her ponytail. He shrugged off the rejection and turned back to sorting his computer discs. “It’s exiting isn’t it,” he said, meaning his trip, the tone of his voice matching his words. “Are you excited, Trude?”
    She nodded again, but her dark brown eyes swelled with tears.
    Roger packed the last of the discs, gave Trudy a triumphal glance, then turned back to his computer—moreimportant things on his mind. Behind him, Trudy’s silent tears kept flowing, glistening droplets trickling down her cheeks, congregating into little puddles on the wide band of foul-tasting sticky tape plastered over her mouth.
    Trudy, now wide awake, felt disembodied—her thoughts hovering in mid-air, refusing to be part of the carnage that lay below her on the filthy bed—wondering what had hit her, and how she’d been stupid enough to get in the way. Beneath her, the bruised and bleeding body was in agony; hands and arms the worst: Blood and pus oozed from a huge blister on the side of her fist where she’d pounded against the rough brick walls; her shoulders and upper arms were blue from being repeatedly slammed against the solid wooden door—a living battering ram which had rebounded as readily as a tennis ball off concrete—and the wreckage of