10.10.06 Avarice

I: Sunday, October 8, 2006, New York City, New York

The streets of New York are particularly kind to me today, despite the grip of Fall taking its claim upon the city and its environs ever so harder each and every day. Not much traffic, makes it easier to get around, especially via foot.

Central Park is bustling on this lovely Sunday afternoon. The foliage of course was well on its way in its transformation from bright verdant green to various tints of orange, yellow and red.

I stop and glance at a couple of young children play about in a rather large pile of leaves while their mother looks on fondly. I smile, pumpkin pie resting gently under my arm. The mother sees me looking and smiles at me; I reciprocate.

Rather pretty, she is.

I continue on my way as the wind picks up just slightly. I wear a light trenchcoat ensuring I am none the worse from the wind. The Sun provides any additional heat I require.

The Sun amazes me. Five billion years old, sure to shine for another five billion years, and then...

The end.

I myself begin to shuffle through some leaves pondering on this ridiculous near-existentionalist nonsense, but I do so enjoy it.

The end of the Earth - if Man doesn't annihilate it beforehand, which we probably will, thanks to the likes of Kim Jong-Il and what not - will come in a blaze as the Sun engorges to a Red Giant, swallowing up Venus, Mercury and the Earth, annihilating this futile planet in a fire hotter than hell.

Sounds cool, actually.

I look to my shoulder to find a wilted leaf on my jacket - I brush it aside and watch it flutter to the ground, lifeless.

I love Autumn.

Nature dies.

It's not a terribly long walk from the Payard Patisserie on Lexington, a bit less than two miles, carrying this damnable pumpkin pie, something I'm not all too keen on. But of course Her Grace insisted. The bloody bakery didn't even make it until I called and requested it specially. Money talks, and they were more than pleased to provide the item in question.

She's so goddamn picky. But why complain about the obvious.

Into Mr. Trump's building that I call home and there she sits, Queen of the World, giggling madly, her cute little ass glued to some DVD where some gentleman with a large afro-style hair do - yet he's white - looks a bit exasperated.

"The answer is 'Sometimes When We Touch.'"

"That's what I said!"

"No you did not!"

"Yes she did, what are you, deaf or something?"

"You did NOT give the correct answer!"

"Yes I did!"

"She did NOT! That was NOT the correct - all right, that's it SHOW'S OVER! Get out! Everybody OUT, no winners, no winners, CERTAINLY no scholarships! That's it! NO points! Clear the studio! I want YOU out! "

She's laughing hysterically at this. And I do not get it. It was a game show of some sort.

"What in..."

"Oh HI sweetie!"

She switches off the DVD.

With a spring she walks over to me and puts her arms around my neck, and pulls me in for a long lingering kiss.

I look down at her with slight suspicion.

"I have your beloved pumpkin pie."

"Aw, thanks sweetie, I love you."

...

"I'll go prepare dinner."

"Okay baby, if you need help just tell me."

She smacks my arse playfully with a giggle, and returns to her chair.

The following dozens of minutes pass as I look over sauces and vegetables.

Dinner time.

Confrontation time.

She knows it. It explains her cordial behaviour. For a moment I had begun to wonder who this woman was, and what she did with my Duchess.

"So."

"So," she smiles.

"So indeed."

"Pass the wine please baby?"

I oblige.

"Well."

"Well what?" she mutters coyly, pouring some into her glass.

"We agreed to talk."

"We are, aren't we?"

"No."

"No what?"

"Marissah."

"Yes?"

"You agreed. You put this off long enough."

"I'm not sure I remember," as she stares into her food. I know I'm a decent cook, but this is bullshit.

"You damn well do remember. I remember sitting in an ER scared shitless about my wife in Germany."

She looks up.

"I love Germany."

I try to withhold an exasperated sigh, as I grip my knife a bit firmly, ensuring it stays in place.

"How about crack cocaine?"

She keeps on eating. She must love oregano.

"You're just going to ignore this?"

She shrugs.

"Are you an addict?"

Silence.

"So what are we going to do about this?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know."

"I just don't."

She's like a teenager.

"You're going to seek some councilling perhaps?"

"Doubt it," she declares non-chalantly.

"Perhaps we should seek a divorce lawyer then?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Drama."

"Pardon?"

She takes a sip. "Don't be so dramatic."

"I did not know Your Grace that caring for one's spouse equated drama."

"I'm an adult, I can do as I please."

"Including a gross violation of the law and alienating your husband?"

I was waiting for her outburst after uttering those words.

"Baby I love you."

The three words again. I so rarely hear them, they almost leave me stunned.

"I love you too. But this isn't the time for sweet talk."

"But I really do..." She gets up and approaches me and goes behind me whilst I sit, and wraps her arms around my neck. A big smooch.

"And I want to have a family someday still. I want Eddy to have a little brother or sister."

I look forward to her empty chair.

"If you do, you'll stop doing that shit. No mother is fit to give birth whilst strung out on cocaine."

She sadly sighs.

"I know. I did it a few times...I can quit whenever I want, honestly."

"You had better."

"Besides I don't want you to worry about this match coming up. I want to support you, not hinder you."

That's a bit more like it.

"I know you'll kick the Phil McCrappen out of him."

Fuck that was sad.

"And you have a Ph.D...." I snorted ruefully.

"Smartest woman in wrestling baby."

She leaned down and breathed warm air into my ear, driving my sex drive instantly into overdrive.

"...and the world." She added. She pressed her chest into the back of my head.

We had an awful lot of mess to clean up from that dinner table and off the floor later on.