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I straighten to my full five foot seven and, with a glare so hot it could set the furniture on fire, I tell her, “I am the owner of this condo. Until just now, I was also the partner of this douche.”
“I live here, baby.” He stares as if daring me to contradict him.
With a swallow and a deep breath, I summon all the flair I use in the courtroom, snapping, “You don’t live here anymore, you bastard. Out.” My forefinger points to the still ajar front door.
“But, Micki, darlin’, I need to…” He grabs for the bib of his overalls, voice a combination of whine and wheedle.
“Scram. All you need to do is leave and never come back.”
He scrambles up and faces me. He’s trying to pull up his boxers with no success. “Back off and let me explain.” He gives a menacing growl.
I step forward, my stilettos pushing down into the denim of the overalls that pool on the floor, and shove farther into his personal space. The bright red nail of that same forefinger pokes at his chest. “You need to leave. Right now.”
He backs up, and a ripping sound makes his face redden. “You tore my pants, bimbo,. These are fucking expensive,” he snivels. “Prada.”
My disbelieving gasp turns into a laugh. “How the hell do you afford Prada? Save up from all the meals I’ve paid for? The rent you’ve saved living here? A wealthy patron you never mentioned? Certainly not from the mediocre art you produce.” My eyes narrow. “Oh, I know, they’re knockoffs. Should be more careful with your money, Sammy.”
His enraged growl makes me expect he’ll shake his raised fist at me, but he hauls off and punches me in the face. Shocked, I put a hand on the arm of the couch to keep my balance, taste blood as my bottom lip catches between my teeth, and don’t make a sound.
“You’ll be sorry,” he yells as I slam the door on his fingers. He yelps and steps back, so I close the door, set the deadbolt, and sink onto the floor, trying to block out his banging fist against the wood.
I shudder with frustration as they clatter down the stairs of the six-flat building. That’s when I realize he still has a key, but I’m too discombobulated to deal with it now. Instead, I call my best friend, Cress. She promises to come right over.
I drop my head into my hands. Can’t hold back the tears and I start to bawl.
The visions dissolveas I hear Sam, still screaming like a banshee. A hail of pebbles smash into the building. Then another rock hits, this one bigger. I pray he hasn’t caused any major damage. I crack open the window and yell. “What did you expect? You cheated on me and ruined my couch, you fucker.” Pulling the window back down, I reach for my cellphone and dial 911.
* * *
JL
When the woman you lust after agrees to a first date, you feel you’ve won the World Cup. Micki and I met last December when Max’s girlfriend, Cress, faced accusations of plagiarism, a threat that could have destroyed her writing career, and eventually escalated to physical violence. Cress’ best friend came as part of the package. She was a magnetic field that drew me in, although she had a longtime boyfriend, Sam.
Our uneasy relationship, built on mutual friends and embarrassing circumstances, has been tentative, even after Sam turned out to be a total douche. The day she found him having sex on her couch, she threw him out, but not before he hit her. Despite her reluctance, Max and I convinced her that a trip to the emergency room had to happen. Her belligerent attitude made the staff happy to see the back of her. Since then, I’ve given her space but, three months later, I’m ready to try for a goal.
Last month, standing in front of Max’s Gold Coast mansion, she was a vision in a chic emerald-green wool coat, unbuttoned so I could admire the stunning blue silk wrap dress with the deep neckline that matched her Pacific-blue eyes. Her long, straight, honey-colored hair curved below her shoulders, swinging slightly when she moved. Short enough to fit under my chin, I itched to hold her gentle curves.
Heat rose from my feet to my face. Instead of repeating the greeting, what popped out was, “Micki, ma chère, I want to take you out sometime.” At least it wasn’t what I’d been thinking.I want to take you to bed, right now.
She blinked. Then blinked again. “Uh, yeah, sure.” Sparkly nails in some kind of graduated blues pushed back flying silken strands. Her words were so tentative, I followed up with the inane, “Really? You’re sure?”
“Sorry. You surprised me. But yes, I’m sure.”
That’s when I screamed victory, waving my arms in the air like a madman, only slightly constricted by the stiff leather of the new jacket Maman sent me for my birthday. No butter-soft hide for her. It’s rich, dark-brown, textured like tree bark. The look sharp. It would wear into suppleness eventually, but not for a few years at least. I would never tell her I would have preferred something more pliant. Pre-ruined, a term a friend coined.
Micki’s reaction was adorable. Shock, delight, and amusement flitted across her face in rapid succession. Her eyes sparkled as she tossed her head, silky tresses flying in all directions. In the end, we both doubled over laughing.
Moaning, she held her side. “Damn it. I have a stitch. Laughter shouldn’t hurt.”
I tried to nod and straighten up at the same time, gasping from the pain. “Calisse,” I grunted. My face was wet. Never believed cry laughing was real until then.
“Just so you know, I’m planning on karaoke.” I crossed my fingers, hoping one of my favorite things appealed to her, too.
A mischievous grin touched her lips. Then, fists raised, she screamed, “Score!” And we dissolved into new paroxysms of laughter.
A door slammed, and Max ran down the steps. No coat. He started shivering as soon as he stopped. “Bloody hell.” He rubbed his arms. “What the fuck do you maniacs think you’re doing? I’m sure people can hear you all the way to South Shore.”
Micki giggled. “Bit of an exaggeration, Max.”
