The whiskey burned wonderfully as it slid down her throat,
crisp and biting, churning her insides as it rolled into her belly. The
alcohol’s warmth spread quickly, flushing the flesh of her skin while filling
her head with gentle, giddy waves of ease and comfort.
Flopping heavily onto the cool skin of the tattered
leather sofa, she sought to clear her mind, briefly closing her eyes while struggling
to relax. The deepening furrows of her brow, once tense and hard began to
soften and fade with each strong, acrid sip of the whiskey. The tension, obvious
in the red, harshly etched lines of her large, round eyes, began to weaken as
the booze worked its soothing magic. Her tight shoulders eased and slumped as
she sighed contentedly, sinking further into the lush, full cushions.
Her thick, reddish hair, somewhat mussed in the front and
tied in the back, glistened softly in the dim, yellow light form the cheap
brass lamp behind her. Reaching back, she freed it from the red ribbon tying it
together and with a sideways shake of her head, let it fall loose about her
shoulders, a curled cluster of light, rosy strands clinging to one corner of
her mouth, forming a small, satiny loop across one pale and lightly freckled cheek.
Finishing the last of her drink in a few quick gulps,
she stretched long and enjoyably before rising from the sofa, hesitant to move
yet eager for another shot of the calming, restive fluid. Kicking off her tall,
thin heels as she walked, she crossed the oaken-planked floor of the small living
room to a wheeled wooden cart adorned with an assortment of glass bottles of
varying shades and assorted colors.
Her short, black skirt, slit to the thighs, exposed her
shapely legs as she walked, fit and firm. Her bright green eyes, glazed with
fatigue from the smoke filled rooms and smog-laden streets, still sparkled with
youth and life, full of intelligence and vitality despite her weary, lethargic
mood. The years had been good to her, and her figure. The twelve-hour shifts
shoving whiskies and beers in the faces of rude, offensive assholes had for
years been her nightly cross to bear, having to dress as part of the menu while
happily batting her eyes, her thorn, yet both helped with the tips.
After pouring a thin inch of clear brown liquid into her
glass, she stepped away from the cart, pushing open a door at the end of the
room with one nylon-covered foot. Looking down the short hallway, lit only by the
filtered light seeping from within a small office nook at the back of the
apartment, she called.
“Wayne, I’m home,” before pausing for an answer.
“Hey babe, be right out,” came the deep voiced, male response.
“Got something to show you honey. Give me a sec…to
finish this page. Be right out.”
She stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of his
fingers moving nimbly across his laptop keyboard, tapping in rapid succession.
Knowing his ways, she knew well that there was no use attempting to get his
attention or pull him away from his writing. She knew he would not, no…could
not stop until he cleared his mind of the days gathering of ripened words.
Letting the paint chipped door swing soundlessly back
and forth on its hinges, she stopped then turned away. Pausing again in front
of the small cart, this time to examine a silver framed photo of a young man
and women, both dressed in wedding whites and satin black. Smiling pertly,
exhaling a gentle, satisfied sigh, she returned to the sofa, second drink in
hand. Easing back onto its overstuffed softness, she sat quietly for a time, sipping
slowly.
Setting the glass tumbler on top of a glass topped
coffee table, she rubbed her tired feet, grudgingly allowing the exhaustion she’d
been fighting to flood over her, replacing the soothing warmth of the whiskey with
sleepy softness. Leaning back against the end of the sofa, propping her feet on
top of a small green pillow she closed her eyes briefly.
After nodding off repeatedly, catching herself in quick,
jerky movements, she relented to fatigue and turning to one side, tucking the
palm of one hand underneath the side of her face, she drew her knees up towards
her chest and fell fast asleep.
The hallway door swung open as Wayne walked briskly into
the room.
He walked swiftly, excitedly. Looking down at his hands while
fumbling with a long white envelope, he strode purposefully to the front of the
sofa, then holding the printed page before his face, he read, speaking quickly,
stammering as he went.
“They made me an offer!” He proudly announced, shaking
the hand signed letter in front of his eyes. “I can’t believe it! Look, I mean…
Here, just listen.”
The setup was quick yet dramatic as he nervously read
the letter, liberally spicing the printed words with his own boyish humor. The
tension in his voice growing, building to its eventual climax as he announced
the five-figure advance and the rest of the offer that would forever change
their mundane existence.
“Twenty thousand retainer over the next six months, ten
thousand up front, twenty five percent commission on all sales and I keep all
residual rights, movies…book signings…the works. Oh Shelia, you can finally
quit that piece of shit job. We can travel. We can…”
Expecting a flood of joy and pride from his wife, yet
hearing nothing, he looked down for the first time since entering the room. A
smile filled his strong face, as he
forgot the letter clasped tightly in one hand. Seeing the peaceful innocence
drawn across the smooth lines of her lightly pursed lips, his joy turned instantly
to compassion and grateful desire.
His watched for a moment as his wife lay sleeping, her legs
pulled up and bent, one hand and arm
drooping over the side of the sofa, almost touching the floor, the other positioned
under her head, palm up. Her breaths fell slow and even, regular and rhythmic.
Her face, now devoid of tension and stress, lay painted with beauty and restful
calm. A thin, yet pleasant smile curled
her thin, pink lips as she dreamt.
Putting the letter back into the envelope, dropping it clumsily
atop of the table, he bent. Then kneeling before her, placing his lips softly
against her one exposed ear, he whispered,” I Love you madly.”
As he carried her down the darkened hallway towards
their small bedroom, her arms tight about his neck, he thought not of the
letter nor all that it meant for their lives, but rather of what was most
important. For at that moment he had never been surer of what mattered most,
and he held it in his arms. The rest could wait.
The End
© 2009, Tim Wilkinson
Author Bio:
