| 2 �I can�t go on, Blythe,� I whisper into the phone. �I really can�t. I haven�t left the apartment in God knows how long.� Laughter drips like pearls out of the receiver, as innocent as a babe pulling on an iron�s cord. �Don�t be like that, Lucia. You�re overreacting,� Blythe says. Her voice is too high. I wish I could bash it down to a normal frequency, one that would not make wolves for miles around howl from their hidden caves. My fingers are knotted in the telephone cord again. I pull my fingers away carefully, and the coils sway back and forth. �I�m not overreacting. I�m being one hundred and twenty percent serious. If I hadn�t gotten rid of Sol�s gun, I wouldn�t be talking with you right now,� I say. �If I had a gun, you wouldn�t be talking with me, either,� Blythe laughed, that silly golden coloured laugh. �Wait until something happens to Brett, and then you�ll understand how I�m feeling,� I warn. Brett is her husband. The tall, tanned tennis player. He took Blythe to Paris for their tenth anniversary, and bought her the most gorgeous diamond necklace. She doesn�t know he is sleeping with the sleazy fitness instructor from his health club. Nor does she know how many times he is tried to slip his slimy tongue down my throat. �Nothing will happen to Brett,� she says. I can see her grin through the phone. It is the same look she always gives me. I am so happy, it says, I am rich and my husband pays no attention to me. I love living in a fantasy world, her lop-sided smile tells me. �I just wish he didn�t have a game tonight. He�s been participating in a lot of late-night tournaments recently.� She is completely oblivious. �Yeah. It�s horrible,� is all that I can manage to say without spilling the truth. �You�re lucky. You won�t have to sit at home and wait for Sol. Oh my, that was mean. I�m so sorry, Lucia, love.� She isn�t sorry. She meant what she had said. She wanted it to cut me like a sharp rock hidden on a sandy beach. I take a deep breath and try to smile. �It�s ok. You didn�t mean it,� I say. �Look, I have to go.� My voice is deepening to a low growl. I hope she doesn�t notice the dull hate that has started to bubble up to my throat. �No problem, love. You�re starting to sound like some depressed person from one of those soap operas. Get some sleep, will ya?� Blythe utters and she hangs up. Some sleep? I wish I could slap her. I�ve had enough sleep to last me for the rest of my life. I�m more depressed than those corny actors on television could ever dream of being. At least they have something to live for. The phone is placed in its cradle. I lie in the hollow that Sol�s back had created in the mattress. The faded blue and pink roses on the bed sheets murmur stories about our love making. Their delicate and sensuous words speak of a time when true love and moments of animal lust ruled the night. The flowers address millions of unkept promises, both lost in the snarled mess of our bed sheets and forgotten in the summer�s heat, when hallucinations dominate the dark. I close my eyes, and remember the empty dreams we had shared on this bed. Our longing to have a family, to have a lavish home, a dog, and eventually a grandchild or two. However, these dreams are written in handwriting on a wall, where one has to verify the authenticity in order to remember that they were (at one time) aspirations and not purely a trick of the mind. Floating into a dream, I smell Sol�s clean scent and I feel his warm touch on my bare back. I see him lying beside me with his arms wrapped around his pillow. He whispers good night and kisses my forehead as I start to cry quietly in my sleep. Page 3 More Stories Lair Homepage |