Post by Harley Quinn on Aug 3, 2017 19:30:23 GMT -6
Harleen was asleep in the bed. Moonlight slanted through the half-shut slats of the blinds and flowed along the contour of her rounded hip. Her husband, Jim, found pajamas in a drawer of the chest and undressed beside the bed. Lying on his back, he looked up at the ceiling and thought about everything that had happened. There was nothing, even then, that he wanted changed. And that was good, at least, because it was far too late for change, even if he had wanted it.
He didn’t sleep. He was still lying on his back, in the position he had first taken, when Harleen stirred awake. He lay silently with his eyes half open and watched her swing out of bed. Harleen went over to the bathroom door and snapped on the light inside, and he could see in the soft glow, through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, the lithe loveliness of her body. She closed the door behind her, and he heard water running. Finished with the shower, she came back into the bedroom and turned on small lights either side of the dressing table mirror. Sitting on the bench before the mirror, turned a little to the side so that he was looking at her profile, she began to paint her nails. The sheer robe that had replaced her gown fell open across her thighs from its narrow belt, and she crossed her knees, resting each hand palm down on the upper knee as she painted the nails. She worked very slowly and carefully and didn’t look in his direction at all.
When the nail polish had dried, she turned on the bench and began to brush her fair hair with long, even strokes. She brushed until it shone like white gold in the light. As she lifted the brush to the crown of her head to start the long sweep down the fall of her hair, he could see clearly in the mirror the firm protrusion of her breasts against the thin robe.
The stroking done, she lay the brush down on the glass top of the table and picked up a thin gold tube of lipstick. She applied the scarlet colour to her lips in a bright smear, leaning forward to look into the mirror, smoothing it with the tip of a little finger and tucking her lips in together to give it the shape of her mouth. Standing, she loosened the robe and let it drift down in a thin cloud over the bench behind her.
Naked, Harleen padded across the bedroom to the closet, gathering clothes. She carried the garments and went over to the bed and began to dress. She lowered over her head a soft black dress. The dress was slashed low in front, a narrow V between her breasts, and was like lacquer on her hips. In shiny black stilettos, she returned to the mirror and resumed fixing her hair, looking at her reflection with quiet appraisal. Then she turned and went out of the room.
Harleen still hadn’t looked at her husband. Not even briefly.
He kept on lying there in bed, and pretty soon the smell of coffee came up the stairs, and for just a second it was a morning like any other morning. He lifted his arms back and above his head, stretching, feeling the muscles pull tight along the length of his body. He showered, dressed and went down.
Harleen was in the kitchen. She was standing at the window overlooking the backyard, and he saw that she was holding a cup of coffee in her hands. He went up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, but she was stiff as stone, and the chill of her flesh came through her dress into his fingers.
“There’s coffee on the bench,” she said.
“Thanks.”
Jim went over and poured coffee into a cup then carried it over to the table and sat down. Harleen remained at the window with her back to him, looking out into the bright sunshine of the morning. The steam from his coffee ascended into his nostrils. It was a good smell. It was a smell a man might miss if he were never to know it again.
“You said bourbon,” Harleen said. “Yesterday after Louis had been discovered dead in his apartment, you said that his bourbon wasn’t dry on the carpet.”
Jim looked down into the black liquid with the steam rising lazily from its surface. “Bourbon’s a word, cupcake. You see a man taking a drink, you say, ‘Look at that man drinking bourbon.’ It stands for anything.”
She shook her head. “No. You say cocktail, or highball, or just drink. You don’t say bourbon, or scotch, or rye, unless you know for sure it’s bourbon, or scotch, or rye. That’s why you said bourbon, because you knew it was bourbon. Because you saw him mix it and even had one with him before you pulled out your gun. Jim, I know it was you who killed Louis.”
Harleen stood waiting for him to say something, but Jim had nothing to say, because there was no use in confessing something she already knew, and there was no use lying when a lie would do no good. After a while, she turned and faced him, the bright window behind her, looking at her husband with eyes that were dead, holding the cup in her hands below her breasts. “You knew I committed adultery with that man” she said softly. “You killed Louis Moreau because you thought the killing was a way to get me back. I suppose that I should be grateful for such a love.” she stopped, looking at Jim across the cradled cup, and when she spoke again her voice was no more than a whisper. “But I’m not. I’m very sorry, but I loved Louis so much that there’s nothing I want now but to see his murderer dead.”
The tiredness inside of Jim was unlike anything he had ever known before. “That’s a lot of love,” he said.
“I’m very confused,” she answered. She shook her head and came beside his chair. “You were wrong in what you did, but you didn’t know you were … and you did it for me.”
Jim looked up at Harleen, at the strange blankness on her face, the beautiful body that was freshly bathed and clothed. He now understood the ritual she had performed, as nearly as such things can be understood. She came to him, and she was stiff and cold, the way a woman can be when she is giving herself in payment for something. And when it was all over, he was not surprised to find a gun in her hand pointing at his head.
He didn’t sleep. He was still lying on his back, in the position he had first taken, when Harleen stirred awake. He lay silently with his eyes half open and watched her swing out of bed. Harleen went over to the bathroom door and snapped on the light inside, and he could see in the soft glow, through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, the lithe loveliness of her body. She closed the door behind her, and he heard water running. Finished with the shower, she came back into the bedroom and turned on small lights either side of the dressing table mirror. Sitting on the bench before the mirror, turned a little to the side so that he was looking at her profile, she began to paint her nails. The sheer robe that had replaced her gown fell open across her thighs from its narrow belt, and she crossed her knees, resting each hand palm down on the upper knee as she painted the nails. She worked very slowly and carefully and didn’t look in his direction at all.
When the nail polish had dried, she turned on the bench and began to brush her fair hair with long, even strokes. She brushed until it shone like white gold in the light. As she lifted the brush to the crown of her head to start the long sweep down the fall of her hair, he could see clearly in the mirror the firm protrusion of her breasts against the thin robe.
The stroking done, she lay the brush down on the glass top of the table and picked up a thin gold tube of lipstick. She applied the scarlet colour to her lips in a bright smear, leaning forward to look into the mirror, smoothing it with the tip of a little finger and tucking her lips in together to give it the shape of her mouth. Standing, she loosened the robe and let it drift down in a thin cloud over the bench behind her.
Naked, Harleen padded across the bedroom to the closet, gathering clothes. She carried the garments and went over to the bed and began to dress. She lowered over her head a soft black dress. The dress was slashed low in front, a narrow V between her breasts, and was like lacquer on her hips. In shiny black stilettos, she returned to the mirror and resumed fixing her hair, looking at her reflection with quiet appraisal. Then she turned and went out of the room.
Harleen still hadn’t looked at her husband. Not even briefly.
He kept on lying there in bed, and pretty soon the smell of coffee came up the stairs, and for just a second it was a morning like any other morning. He lifted his arms back and above his head, stretching, feeling the muscles pull tight along the length of his body. He showered, dressed and went down.
Harleen was in the kitchen. She was standing at the window overlooking the backyard, and he saw that she was holding a cup of coffee in her hands. He went up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, but she was stiff as stone, and the chill of her flesh came through her dress into his fingers.
“There’s coffee on the bench,” she said.
“Thanks.”
Jim went over and poured coffee into a cup then carried it over to the table and sat down. Harleen remained at the window with her back to him, looking out into the bright sunshine of the morning. The steam from his coffee ascended into his nostrils. It was a good smell. It was a smell a man might miss if he were never to know it again.
“You said bourbon,” Harleen said. “Yesterday after Louis had been discovered dead in his apartment, you said that his bourbon wasn’t dry on the carpet.”
Jim looked down into the black liquid with the steam rising lazily from its surface. “Bourbon’s a word, cupcake. You see a man taking a drink, you say, ‘Look at that man drinking bourbon.’ It stands for anything.”
She shook her head. “No. You say cocktail, or highball, or just drink. You don’t say bourbon, or scotch, or rye, unless you know for sure it’s bourbon, or scotch, or rye. That’s why you said bourbon, because you knew it was bourbon. Because you saw him mix it and even had one with him before you pulled out your gun. Jim, I know it was you who killed Louis.”
Harleen stood waiting for him to say something, but Jim had nothing to say, because there was no use in confessing something she already knew, and there was no use lying when a lie would do no good. After a while, she turned and faced him, the bright window behind her, looking at her husband with eyes that were dead, holding the cup in her hands below her breasts. “You knew I committed adultery with that man” she said softly. “You killed Louis Moreau because you thought the killing was a way to get me back. I suppose that I should be grateful for such a love.” she stopped, looking at Jim across the cradled cup, and when she spoke again her voice was no more than a whisper. “But I’m not. I’m very sorry, but I loved Louis so much that there’s nothing I want now but to see his murderer dead.”
The tiredness inside of Jim was unlike anything he had ever known before. “That’s a lot of love,” he said.
“I’m very confused,” she answered. She shook her head and came beside his chair. “You were wrong in what you did, but you didn’t know you were … and you did it for me.”
Jim looked up at Harleen, at the strange blankness on her face, the beautiful body that was freshly bathed and clothed. He now understood the ritual she had performed, as nearly as such things can be understood. She came to him, and she was stiff and cold, the way a woman can be when she is giving herself in payment for something. And when it was all over, he was not surprised to find a gun in her hand pointing at his head.