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While I waited, I decided to have a look around the rest of her house. It was fairly clean but sitting in that room, I realized I’d made the right selection. She was one of those closeted messy people, the kind that likes to hide things. Surely the world will be fine with one less of those.
For ninety-seven minutes I sat and I waited, stuck with B.O. and my own thoughts, which, thanks to her tardiness, weren’t much better.
Then, finally, I heard the beautiful sound of a key clicking in the lock, and I knew the wait was over.
The dog greeted her at the door. A sweet dog, though useless. He wasn’t a barker. Just a terrible choice she made, one among many. I wondered how long it would take someone to find her. Such a pity, the dog’s bowl was empty. How long would it take before he got hungry enough to feast on her?
That I would like to see.
It took another twenty-two minutes for her to rummage through the refrigerator, microwave her findings, and flip through her phone, until finally I heard the sound of running water and I knew it was almost the end.
She looked different naked. Most women look better without clothes on, but this one, she surprised me. Maybe it was the grunge, the way she seemed ashamed of her body, wearing loose-fitting attire, as though afraid to be seen.
She was terrified, opening her eyes, seeing me standing there. Of course she was. But she was predictable in her fear, rushing to cover herself instead of going on the offensive. She bargained, too, like they all do.
Unfortunately, her fate was sealed. She liked baths, and she lived alone. She left windows open and made questionable choices in pets. She inserted herself into my story, and I inserted myself into hers.
“Listen,” I said putting my finger to my mouth. “You can scream if you want. But you’ll still die in the end.”
She made herself small in the tub—the wrong move to make when faced with a predator. “Now, I have to ask you a question. Are you ready? It’s very important.”
Her eyes bulged as she gave a shaky nod.
“Who said ‘Give me liberty, or give me death?’”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Then her eyes darted around the small bathroom before finally landing back on me. “Bill Clinton?”
“Wrong,” I said making a clucking sound with my tongue. “Would you like to try again?”
Her eyes narrowed. I could see that she was going to disappoint me…that she was going to take a guess. “Obama.”
It was a mystery to me, how she couldn’t answer a simple question. And, there was something else. What I’d come for. I had questions of my own. I wanted to know what true electrocution looked like. Obviously, a person shakes. Obviously, it looks like they’re an epileptic having an episode. But there are other things that happen too. The body heats up, causing severe damage to internal organs. The eyeballs melt. As the body twists and gyrates, bodily functions release. The bath water turns murky brown. Skin burns off. It will have to be scraped off the sides of the tub if it is ever to be used again. That is, of course, if the dog doesn’t get to it first.
Chapter Twelve
To say that Eve retreats back into herself after the hotel incident would be an understatement. I have no idea how women always know when there’s been someone else, but apparently, it’s a superpower. No matter how many times I tell her that nothing happened, that I stayed over to write, she refuses to believe me.
Perhaps the saddest part of all is it’s the truth. It was nothing. Gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you one thing about that woman’s body or what the sex was like
. I was three sheets to the wind. If I’m going to have to pay—and it seems I am—shouldn’t I at least remember what I’m paying for?
I’m a good enough writer to know a bad analogy when I see one. Obviously, the guy who killed my boys, he was probably too drunk to remember his actions. He didn’t deserve to live. But he did.
And in my case, no one died. Not literally.
But Eve moves her belongings back downstairs. She stops eating, stops talking, stops doing much of anything. You don’t have to be ruthless with your words if you’re ruthless with your actions.
Meanwhile, I continue to spend mornings with Liam, writing, afternoons walking, and nighttime drinking myself into oblivion.
“How’s it going with the girl?” I ask Liam one afternoon. Perhaps I’m desperate to talk to someone, to anyone, or perhaps I’m hoping he will bring up Eve, and in turn, my indiscretion. Most likely, I just want to hear that things are as bad for him as they are for me.
“It’s not going well,” he answers. “Not well at all.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
He looks away, out the window, before he stands and walks over to it. “My parents received a wedding invitation,” he tells me, staring out at the yard. “I guess she’s really going through with it.”
“The sun will shine on you again.”
