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I shrug.
She takes a long pull and exhales into the night air. “For millennia, people have taken vacations…people have had children…” she tells me, like she’s getting at some great big point. “This is an endless universe which spans who knows how long.” She gestures toward the sky, and I consider for a moment that she’s had too much to drink. “And still people think the details of their lives are special. So much so that they go to parties and spend the whole night detailing them to complete strangers.” She takes another drag, this time blowing smoke my way. It reminds me how much I miss it, regardless of the source. “No one is that special, George.”
Nostalgia rolls off her tongue in a manner I find amusing. “I take it you’re not a fan of people.”
“Oh, I love people,” she quips. “It’s the niceties and fakery I could do without.”
I don’t say anything in response, even though I understand what she means completely. I had been thinking it myself. As a collector of stories, I sometimes get so wrapped up in my own little world that I forget what it’s like. Back when I was a regular chart-topper, there were endless social functions, awards, book tours and such. It always struck me as odd that strangers felt that because they knew my words, they knew me. To describe what it was like standing there talking to people who felt like they knew me but who were essentially strangers, as far as I was concerned, is awkward. They’d ask me about the children, about life, picking out small details in articles, piecing them together, painting sometimes, but not often, accurate pictures of my life.
I never felt more like an imposter than I did standing there listening to people drone on incessantly about their trip to Italy three summers ago or little Johnny’s latest feat.
“It makes me feel like a fraud. All this smiling.”
“I heard about your fiancé.”
She turns to face me. “Absolutely tragic, isn’t it?”
“The death of a young person is always tragic.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
I swirl the remaining whiskey around my glass. “The cops have any leads?”
“For all I know,” she says with a snicker, “they’re watching me this very second.”
“Who could blame them?”
“We weren’t married.” She leans against the balcony. “What motive could I possibly have?” she asks, giving me the side-eye. “It’s not like I’ve gained anything.”
“Freedom isn’t nothing.”
“True,” she smirks. “Good thing I have an airtight alibi.”
“That’s smart.”
I watch as she stubs her cigarette out. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I was doing?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of my business. And to be honest, I really don’t care.”
“Oh George,” she laughs. It’s a head back, throaty kind of laugh. Then she looks me in the eye. “That’s where you’re wrong. You should care. You should care very much.”
“Shoul
d I?”
A smile lights up her whole face. The kind of smile that makes me unsure whether I want to kill her or fuck her. “I told them I was with you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
At this point in my life, there’s not much that she could say that would surprise me. But if a reaction is what she was after, a reaction was what she got. Mid-sip, I nearly spit out my whiskey. Afterward, she sits down beside me and lowers her voice. It’s full of smoke and mischief. “I think we could be very good together, you and I.”
“I’m married. And my wife is asleep downstairs.”
“That didn’t stop you before.”
