Proverbs 21:1
Thursday 6th December: Trish had told him to come round for coffee when he'd phoned. Seemed the right thing to do. Sean would be at work and it needed ending.
So he came. Baxter Merill wore a loose shirt and sports jacket with white, out-of-style slacks and black penny loafers.
"Those are summer clothes Baxter," were her fist words when he had sat down. Actually Trish subscribed to the Paris Hilton maxim, 'Dress cute wherever you go, life is too short to blend in.' But at the end of the day there had to be limits - and in any case, that applied to girls, not boys. Trish liked her men conventional.
Baxter shrugged. "Suits me anyhow."
"That's as maybe but still they're wrong. Want some coffee?"
"Thanks."
She brought a cake from the pantry and she cut him a slice without asking whether he wanted any. It was her way.
They talked a while, the conversation coy, almost childlike. They didn't ever mention the murder charge against Trish. The one thing of substance that was said between them was that their affair was over almost before it had started.
"You sure you're OK Baxter?"
"What, with this?" He pulled his shirt button open to show his bandaged chest.
"Yes, that," she said, though that wasn't what she'd meant.
Baxter smiled. "It hurts some. But they don't want you hanging about in hospital these days."
He hesitated. "You OK Trish?"
She smiled. "Yes. OK with Sean anyway." Then she laughed. "And I've been away from my work which has given me time to develop my website. Want to see?"
Baxter didn't, but he nodded that yes, he did.
She led him over to the computer and sat him in the chair, kneeling at his side and manipulating the mouse. As she did so her breast brushed against his forearm.
Baxter felt the old hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Had she done that deliberately? He looked down at her, reaching for her with his hand. She held back. "It's over Baxter. I'm back with Sean."
"And I'm back with Vicky. Of course it's over." He caressed her hair as he spoke. "But what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve," she heard him say as he stooped to kiss her. And she found herself thinking, "Oh hell, one more time for the road," as she let him.
She made one lame attempt to forestall the inevitable as she felt his hand move up under the baby doll dress she was wearing. "Baxter, what about your wound?"
She saw him wince then and realised it was hurting him. But he just growled, "What wound?" as he pushed her towards the bedroom and threw her onto the bed. Then he undressed mechanically as he stood there and she followed suit, surrendering to the moment.
It was an hour before he finally moved to leave her, then he dressed swiftly as she did her best to keep up with him. Her lips felt bruised in the aftermath of his onslaught and she had an irrational fear Sean might notice. Her thirst for vengeance was long slaked. This was a sort of closure. Both she and Baxter knew that this was the last time. She led him to the door.
The house was dressed for the Thanksgiving - Christmas season, a wreath on the glass fronted door. Baxter kissed her briefly and perfunctorily.
Then the glass in the part open door was shattered as the bullet slammed between them.
No comments:
Post a Comment