reached a deliciously disheveled state of undress that offered adequate access for the evening’s performance.
They writhed together around the room in the soft light from the desk lamp and the vast twinkling city. She pulled him down onto the sofa and they began diligently working toward their mutual delight.
A thundering whoosh erupted into the room, shaking them to their very bones. All went dark and she screamed, but the sound was lost in the gale that followed, as papers vaulted from the desk, fluttering in the air like startled birds and streaming toward them. They were assaulted by flying objects — the desk lamp, the desk clock and even the computer — all part of a vicious, shadowy attack, trailing severed, whipping electrical cords. The tumbling objects didn’t hit them, but passed overhead in the darkness, vanishing with a clattering, ripping sound into some unseen netherworld. Amidst the howling wind that tore at their skin, his massive walnut desk, shifted and tipped, thudding onto its side. It bounced once, then jerked its ponderous way along the carpet toward them, silhouetted in the city glow.
They both howled in terror, as the breath sucked from their lungs, searing pain stabbed behind their eyeballs and their skin seemed insufficient to contain their flesh which throbbed and bloated in an attempt to escape their bodies.
She felt him lighten and lift away from her, and he flailed at her, reaching to grasp arms, hands, fingers, but was too late. A dull sucking thwop and the room was quiet — except for the strange, now-louder roar of the city. The brief lull was broken by the rise of his breathless moaning.
Whimpering, she rolled off the sofa in the darkness, eyes ripe with tears, entire body aching, crawling and feeling her way along the thick carpet around the massive desk to the base of the wall and up to the light switch. She stood and pressed the switch, the sudden glare of utterly white fluorescent lights making her squint. Some of the lights were shattered, dark; others flickered crazily, but others shone balefully down on the ruined office. She brushed the hanging hair from her face and turned to search for him. As her gaze swept the room on its urgent mission, it abruptly stopped, riveted by a sight so utterly bizarre that even his pitiful groaning made her ignore him to stare at his window. A perfectly round hole in the floor-to-ceiling glass let in the sounds of the city, as well as a cold breeze that chilled her skin.
Another groan from him suddenly spurred her search again, as the groan gathered strength and became a howl. With a stunned gasp, she spied him, or certain parts of him, directly across the room from the window. His head shook back and forth and began to spit curses and his arms flailed weakly, then more vigorously as indignation grew within him. His body was stuffed ass-first into a spot roughly chest-high on the wall. Immediately below his head, his legs and feet, one socked and one bare foot, kicked and struggled ridiculously. She approached him awestruck, her fine jaw slack, her eyes wide. She grew more alarmed at the sight of a thin smear of blood on the wall from a scratch on his back.
His indignation and outrage erupted. He spewed a stream of all the fricative-rich curse words at his disposal, spitting them in random order in an unrelenting steady tirade. As his wits caught up with his invective, the epithets crystallized into a series of interrogative conjectures.
“What the fuck is this? Is this a fucking joke? Is this …” he paused to pant. “… Was it Catherine? Did that goddamned bitch set a bomb? Yeah! Or maybe it was the ventilation system! Yeah! Fucking ventilation system got fucked up!”
She approached, waving her hands in delicate ineffectual confusion about how to help him. But as she considered strategies, she riveted her attention on only one of his spat-out theories.
“Your wife? Your wife, Catherine, did this?”
“Pull me out! I’m stuck!
They writhed together around the room in the soft light from the desk lamp and the vast twinkling city. She pulled him down onto the sofa and they began diligently working toward their mutual delight.
A thundering whoosh erupted into the room, shaking them to their very bones. All went dark and she screamed, but the sound was lost in the gale that followed, as papers vaulted from the desk, fluttering in the air like startled birds and streaming toward them. They were assaulted by flying objects — the desk lamp, the desk clock and even the computer — all part of a vicious, shadowy attack, trailing severed, whipping electrical cords. The tumbling objects didn’t hit them, but passed overhead in the darkness, vanishing with a clattering, ripping sound into some unseen netherworld. Amidst the howling wind that tore at their skin, his massive walnut desk, shifted and tipped, thudding onto its side. It bounced once, then jerked its ponderous way along the carpet toward them, silhouetted in the city glow.
They both howled in terror, as the breath sucked from their lungs, searing pain stabbed behind their eyeballs and their skin seemed insufficient to contain their flesh which throbbed and bloated in an attempt to escape their bodies.
She felt him lighten and lift away from her, and he flailed at her, reaching to grasp arms, hands, fingers, but was too late. A dull sucking thwop and the room was quiet — except for the strange, now-louder roar of the city. The brief lull was broken by the rise of his breathless moaning.
Whimpering, she rolled off the sofa in the darkness, eyes ripe with tears, entire body aching, crawling and feeling her way along the thick carpet around the massive desk to the base of the wall and up to the light switch. She stood and pressed the switch, the sudden glare of utterly white fluorescent lights making her squint. Some of the lights were shattered, dark; others flickered crazily, but others shone balefully down on the ruined office. She brushed the hanging hair from her face and turned to search for him. As her gaze swept the room on its urgent mission, it abruptly stopped, riveted by a sight so utterly bizarre that even his pitiful groaning made her ignore him to stare at his window. A perfectly round hole in the floor-to-ceiling glass let in the sounds of the city, as well as a cold breeze that chilled her skin.
Another groan from him suddenly spurred her search again, as the groan gathered strength and became a howl. With a stunned gasp, she spied him, or certain parts of him, directly across the room from the window. His head shook back and forth and began to spit curses and his arms flailed weakly, then more vigorously as indignation grew within him. His body was stuffed ass-first into a spot roughly chest-high on the wall. Immediately below his head, his legs and feet, one socked and one bare foot, kicked and struggled ridiculously. She approached him awestruck, her fine jaw slack, her eyes wide. She grew more alarmed at the sight of a thin smear of blood on the wall from a scratch on his back.
His indignation and outrage erupted. He spewed a stream of all the fricative-rich curse words at his disposal, spitting them in random order in an unrelenting steady tirade. As his wits caught up with his invective, the epithets crystallized into a series of interrogative conjectures.
“What the fuck is this? Is this a fucking joke? Is this …” he paused to pant. “… Was it Catherine? Did that goddamned bitch set a bomb? Yeah! Or maybe it was the ventilation system! Yeah! Fucking ventilation system got fucked up!”
She approached, waving her hands in delicate ineffectual confusion about how to help him. But as she considered strategies, she riveted her attention on only one of his spat-out theories.
“Your wife? Your wife, Catherine, did this?”
“Pull me out! I’m stuck!
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