8.
One day, he grew bold and began to hatch a plan for leaving Phoebe.
He was nervous, of course. He alternated between elation and depression. He would conquer the world on minute. The next minute, he would die forsaken in a gutter. He would wear a wide hat and look mysterious and let people wonder how a man like he had managed to captivate such a beauty; he would, as happened in some of his dreams, chase Laurissa endlessly down dark spiraling corridors, despairing, never catching her.
That day, he awoke in a panic and decided if he did not act right away, he would lose Laurissa.
So he put on his best suit. He called in sick at work. He stopped at a florist specialty shop, and bought a large bouquet of flowers—a whole meadow's worth, it seemed.
He called Laurissa several times, but nobody answered.
It wasn't Tuesday or Thursday nine a.m., but who cared? He would take charge, break the mold, take possession of her for her entire week, her entire young life. His heart soared with the glory of it.
So he drove to her place, parked down the block as he always did to avoid the building super), and took the back stairs up.
In that wonderful gallery of sunshine and ficus points, of sweet smells and nuzzling bees, he heard her voice as he emerged on her corridor.
For a moment, he thought he was in a time warp. "Thank you, thank you," she was saying. "Oh thank you so much."
Bill took another step forward, wobbling on his cane, and froze. He was too far down the hall to turn away unseen. The shock hit him, and he felt old and heavy. His hip ached, his shoulders sagged, and he used both hands to support himself on the cane.
There she was, whipcrack body in that tight skirt and leggy hose, holding open the door for a stout man with white hair. The stout man had googoo eyes and fat hungry lips. He was about to step into her apartment, and did not see Bill.
Laurissa was just saying: "You can't imagine if you hadn't called me about that wallet..." Then she saw Bill. At that moment, her other benefactor stepped inside.
Her eyes performed several megaflops of calculations. She held the door shut to keep the one man in, and the other out. She stamped her foot. "Bill! You asshole! I told you never come here without calling first."
Bill's lips moved, but no words came out. His mouth went dry with anger and pain. He felt like a fool, holding the flowers that expressed his love, his readiness to give his life to her, to leave Phoebe and become her gajo de la pasion.
Another megaflop; her eyelids churned. "Bill, I'll explain. Call me at six tonight, okay?" She looked at the flowers, opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and went inside slamming the door.
Is this when I kill myself?
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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